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A DAUGHTER OF THE SOIL 


HARPER 


B IHovel 


BY 



NEW YORK 

& BROTHERS PUBLISHERS 
1895 






Copyright, 1895, by Harper & Brothers. 


All rights reserved. 


CONTENTS 


CHAP. PAGE 

I. HOME-COMING 1 

II. COUSINS 10 

III. ROUND THE VILLAGE 17 

IV. RUTH 27 

V. “O MISTRESS MINE, WHERE ARE YOU ROAMING ?” . 35 

VI. THE WARREN FARM 43 

VIT. EXPLANATIONS 54 

VIII. A COMPACT ■ . . 63 

IX. LUKE REMONSTRATES 73 

X. COURTING 81 

XI. MRS. ALFORD EXPRESSES HER OPINION 88 

XII. A CONTRACT AND A PURCHASE 96 

XIII. “married an’ a’” 103 

XIV. AT HOME 112 

XV. A STRANGER 119 

XVI. FATHER AND DAUGHTER 134 

XVII. A FACE AT THE DOOR 141 

XVIII. A REMONSTRANCE AND A PRAYER 145 

XIX. THE CLAIMANT 154 

XX. A TOKEN 164 

XXI. “JOURNEYS END IN LOVERS MEETING” 173 

XXII. CHERCHEZ LA FEMME .179 

XXIII. BROUGHT TO BAT 186 

XXIV. JUDAS 196 

XXV. MME. ROUDOFF . » 203 

XXVI. “hameisbest” 314 

iii 


iv CONTENTS 

CHAP. PAGE 

XXVII. PHILOSOPHY . 224 

XXVIII. SUNDAY VISITORS 233 

XXIX. LAST LINKS 242 

XXX. henry’s “folly” 252 

XXXI. EHEU ! 261 

XXXII. GLIMPSES 267 

XXXIII. GAFFER “ GOES FORRARD ” 274 

XXXIV. “SIGH NO MORE, LADIES ” 282 

XXXV. “mine EAR IS FULL OF THE MURMUR OF ROCKING 

CRADLES ” 288 

XXXVI. SURSUM CORDA 295 


A DAUGHTER OF THE SOIL 


CHAPTER I 
HOME-COMING 

“ I WILL walk up to the house,” said Anthony Clifton to 
the driver of the fly which was conveying him to Alford. 
“ You can go on with the luggage. I shall be there almost 
as soon as you.” 

Yet the pace at which he followed the lumbering vehicle 
was so much slower than the shambling trot of the old 
horse that his arrival had been announced, his belongings 
conveyed upstairs, and his host and cousin had walked 
half-way down the lime-bordered avenue to meet him 
before Anthony’s tall figure came in view. 

The truth was that the sight of this quiet old place 
where he had passed so considerable a part of his boyhood 
and early youth had struck Clifton with a sudden sense of 
pain — a pain so sharp and inexplicable that he was quite 
confounded by it. Why, as he passed through the big 
gates, and heard them groan and rattle as they swung on 
their hinges, should the familiar sound smite him? As 
his steps crunched over the gravel, his glance wandering 
vaguely through green vistas of park, the scent of the 
lime-blossom floating down to his nostrils, why should 
these trivial things awake in him such unaccountable sen- 
sations of — what was it? Tenderness? Regret? A kind 
of remorseful yearning ? Pooh ! it was folly ! Yet 


2 


A DAUGHTER OF THE SOIL 


Anthony had for so long fancied himself incapable of 
strong emotion of any kind that now he felt both curious 
and ashamed. 

He paused and looked round : yonder, through its leafy 
framework, he caught a glimpse of the house, a large, 
rambling, red-brick mansion with nothing particularly 
romantic about it. There awaited him his aunt, a dear, 
erratic, comfortable old body whom he had bullied and 
teased to his heart’s content in his childhood, and of whom 
he had alwaj'^s been fond — after a fashion. There, too, 
was his cousin Henry, the best fellow in the world, for 
whom, as long as he could remember, he had entertained a 
brotherly affection of the calmest and least exacting order, 
and who had borne his prolonged absence from England 
with the utmost equanimity. It was certainly not the 
prospect of meeting his relatives again which thus agitated 
Anthony. 

Many a breezy canter did he have in old times over those 
sunlit slopes ; from the spot on which he stood he could 
see the plantation in which he had spent hours as a boy, 
lying on his back amid the young bracken — he could 
catch the glint of it now behind the paling. Over there 
was the tree where the herons built year after year. Here 
— just here — he had turned to wave his hand to his uncle 
before setting out for India. Commonplace recollections 
enough, surely, and yet 

“ It is easily accounted for,” said Anthony to himself, 
walking on again, with a shrug and a smile. Any man 
would feel rather queer coming back after an absence of 
fifteen years to a place which was once a sort of home to 
him. It is the idea of the changes which have taken place 
in one’s self and one’s life, while every thing one has left 
remains exactly the same, which strikes one so oddly — 
the contrast.” 

Here he laughed — not altogether a pleasant laugh ; the 
word had awakened a fresh train of ideas. 


HOME-COMING 


3 


“ What a callow youth I was ! ” he said, and then he 
sighed. 

It was at this point of his meditations that his cousin 
Henry Alford came in sight. Anthony quickened his 
pace, smiled when they were within a few yards of 
each other, and swung his walking-stick upward with 
a gesture which was presumably meant to express 
pleasure. 

“ Hallo ! ” he cried. 

“ So there you are !” remarked Henry, 

Thus did those two Englishmen meet after a separation 
of fifteen years. 

Being now near enough to shake hands, they did so, 
scanning each other the while ; Henry gazing with admira- 
tion at his cousin’s handsome bronzed face and well-knit 
figure, and Anthony observing with a certain displeased 
surprise the crow’s-feet round the other’s eyes and the 
gray hairs in his mustache. 

“Hang it, he’s only three years older than I am,” he 
thought. 

“ I did not expect you till late,” said Alford, turning 
and walking with him toward the house ; “ you know you 
said you would come by the afternoon train.” 

“ Yes, I did intend to — but it was so hot and stuffy in 
town I thought I might as well get off earlier. I knew it 
wouldn’t put you out.” 

“ Of course not — only I should have liked to meet you 
at the station.” 

Anthony made some polite rejoinder, enquired about his 
aunt’s health, and after expressing satisfaction at the reply 
strolled on for a minute or two in silence. Presently he 
observed, with a smile : 

“ It is curious to find every thing unchanged here. Of 
course I know there have been changes, great changes,” as 
Henry’s expression altered. “ I was awfully sorry to hear 
about your poor father — it was rather sudden at the end, 


4 


A DAUGHTER OF THE SOIL 


too, wasn’t it ? lam talking of the place itself. It strikes 
me oddly to find it so exactly the same.” 

“ The evergreens have grown a good deal,” remarked 
Henry. 

“ And so, I dare say, has the grass,” returned Clifton irri- 
tably. The cousins laughed together, and looked at each 
other with more kindliness than hitherto : Anthony’s little 
ebullition seemed to break down the constraint between 
them. Such meetings as these are frequently embarrassing, 
and sometimes painful. The reunion of friends and kins- 
men who have lived apart for years is, indeed, often more 
difficult to get over than the parting. It is when we sud- 
denly light upon some little well-known trait in the strange 
personality of our old friend that we begin to realize his 
identity. 

“ I see you are as peppery as ever,” cried Henry, passing 
his arm through Clifton’s. 

“ And you are as matter-of-fact ! ” returned Anthony. 
“ I say, do you remember the day when ” 

The recital of some boyish dispute followed, and the two 
were laughing and talking gayly when they arrived in 
front of the portico, on the topmost step of which a stout 
old lady was placidly awaiting them. She wore a garden- 
hat pushed back from her forehead, and a black lace shawl 
disposed cornerwise, the corners being very crooked — both, 
or their duplicates, well remembered by Anthony. 

“ So there you are, Tony, dear,” she remarked, extending 
a plump cool olive cheek, and repeating her son’s greeting 
in the most gentle voice imaginable. “ I am so glad you 
have come, but we expected you by a later train, didn’t 
we, Henry ? I suppose you’ve had lunch, but perhaps you’d 
like some tea — or would you like what your poor uncle 
used to call his tea sometimes ? — a naughty B. and S., or 
rather I should say W. and S.,for I think whiskey, and not 
brandy, is the proper thing.” 

“ Thank you, I should prefer some of your brew,” 


HOME-COMING 


5 


returned her nephew, following her into the house. He 
looked about him as he entered, scarcely heeding the 
trickle of Mrs. Alford’s voice, which flowed on almost unceas- 
ingly except when now and then she interrupted herself to 
chuckle quietly over her own slight pleasantries. It is 
only fair to add, in testimony to her never-failing fund of 
spirits, that no oi>e else ever dreamed of smiling at Mrs. 
Alford’s jokes. 

The library at Alford was the most comfortable room in 
the house — a large and lofty apartment, not too imposing 
to prevent one feeling at ease, yet impressive in its width 
and height, and variety of sober and harmonious tones. 
Books lined the walls from floor to ceiling — not yourflashy- 
looking, tawdry modern affairs, but staid and solid calf- 
bound volumes, the most recent of which had been added 
at the beginning of the century, for the late squire had 
been no reader, and Henry kept his collection in a sanctum 
of his own. Anthony smiled to himself as his eyes fell on 
the incongruous elements which his aunt continued, as of 
old, to introduce into this her favorite sitting room. On 
a carved oak table lay a copy of Society ; a tinsel-be- 
decked, flower-embroidered antimacassar, procured prob- 
ably at the Baker Street Bazaar, was perched uncomfortably 
astride of the antique straight-backed arm-chair in which 
she usually sat ; and her work-basket, overflowing with 
the brightly colored prints and flannels which she manu- 
factured into garments for the poor, lay inside the high 
brass fender. In the corner yonder was the writing-table 
which Henry’s father had used sometimes. Anthony 
became grave again as he glanced toward it. Here there 
was a change. No tweed-clad figure bending over the 
blotter, no white-bearded old face to look up cheerily as 
he entered, no jovial greeting. He seemed to hear still the 
kindly words of encouragement at parting : ‘‘ Well, my 

boy, the world’s before you. We shall hear of your doings, 
I dare say. You’ll do great things with your life, I’m sure.” 


6 


A DAUGHTER OF THE SOIL 


Anthony gave a great start. 

‘‘ What did you say, aunt ? ‘ The worWs before you. 
We shall hear of your doings.'* ” 

His doings ! 

“ You’ll do great things with your life — great things 
with your life,” went on this inward echo of a long silent 
voice, till Anthony, to drown it, jumped up and went to the 
window. As he passed his cousin he saw that he had a 
little bald spot on the top of his head, which he had not 
hitherto noticed, and which distracted his thoughts effectu- 
ally; it was provoking to find his play -fellow so unmistak- 
ably middle-aged. Though he himself was thirty -five, he 
had not yet ceased to look on himself as a young man. 

“ I want to know, my dear Tony,” observed Mrs. Alford 
presently, as he approached the tea-table, “ why you were 
not made a judge or a governor or a potentate of some 
kind or other out there. I always understood that people 
in the Civil Service went in for that sort of thing. I know 
Basil Pennington, who isn’t half as clever as you, had a 
kind of royal position. He was called his Excellency, and 
lived quite in state. I think it was very unfair of the 
government, I must say, to do nothing for you.” 

“ It was my own fault,” returned Anthony. “I chucked 
the whole thing before I was five-and-twenty. Otherwise 
— who knows ? — I might be my Excellency now.” 

“ Well, you ought to be called your Excellency, because 
I am sure you are very excellent,” chuckled Mrs. Alford, 
looking round in placid triumph; “ Very — isn’t he, Henry ? 
But it was foolish of you to give up your career. I remem- 
ber now your writing to tell us about it, but I never could 
understand why you did it — and neither could your uncle, 
could he, Henry ? It was a great disappointment to him.” 

“ Yes, I know — I was sorry.” 

“ Well, but I never could understand why you did it,” 
pursued the lady, drawing her work-basket toward her, and 
beginning to stitch as if for dear life at a huge mass of red 


HOME-COMING 


7 


flannel. “Do explain to us now, Anthony — please. I 
could not make out from your letters.” 

Anthony extended his cup with a bored look. 

“ May I have a little more tea, please ? There really 
isn’t any thing to tell. I was sick of the life and of the 
work and the place ; every thing bored me, and so I cut it. 
There — are you aware that my cup is overflowing ?” 

Mrs. Alford handed it to him, but forgot to put down 
the teapot, and, growing excited during the course of her 
argument, and happening to wave the hand which held it, 
the contents described a series of amber circles on tray and 
table. 

“ I call it shockingly lazy of you, and very aggravating. 
What is the use of the Almighty giving you brains if you 
don’t use them ? You might have made a fortune, and 
your own property is not so very large, you know. Besides, 
it’s such a foolish thing to work and slave as you did to 
pass your exams, — I’m sure you used to look like a ghost 
with all your grinding and cramming, — and then to go and 
give every thing up — for nothing.” 

At this point Henry, mournfully rising, possessed him- 
self of the teapot, placed it on the tray, and removed the 
table to a little distance. Mrs. Alford, without pausing 
in her speech, seized her bundle of flannel and flapped it 
aggressively. 

“ There you are, thirty -five last February ! You might 
be a K. C. B. by this time, you might be Governor-General 
or something or other out there, and have a large pension. 
And all your daughters would have three hundred pounds to' 
buy their trousseaux when they married, and if you died your 
widow would have an excellent what do you call it, and 
your sons I forget how much to start them in life — anyhow 
something very good. And you have thrown it all away.” 

“ My sons and daughters will not require pensions and 
trousseau money,” said Anthony grimly. 

“ And there again ! ” cried Mrs. Alford, suddenly going 


8 


A DAUGHTER OF THE SOIL 


down on her knees, to her nephew’s astonishment, and 
absently passing her free hand beneath the chair she had 
been sitting in, but talking all the time — “ there again ! 
Why didn’t you marry, Anthony ? Of course it must be 
most dull and comfortless for a young man to live abroad 
without a wife, and I am sure,” she pursued in muffled 
tones, for hy this time her head was under the arm-chair 
too, “ I am sure, though people do say India is an unhealthy 
place for children, I should have been delighted to take 
charge of yours for you. Little dears — it would have 
made me young again ! ” 

“ Thanks,” observed Anthony calmlj^ ; “ you seem very 
anxious to provide for my family. But I don’t think I 
shall trouble you in that way.” 

“Well, as I’ve often said to Henry, there is something 
unnatural about the whole business. You were clever and 
hard-working, and suddenly you throw up your career. 
You were always falling in love as a lad, ahcays — dear me, 
the trouble your uncle and I have had with you when you 
would run after undesirable people, and yet you won’t 
marry ! I tell you what it is,” said Mrs. Alford, suddenly 
emerging from beneath the chair, and squatting back on 
her heels with an arch look on her flushed face, “I believe 
you’ve been in love once too often, I do,” shaking her 
fore-finger at him. “I believe there’s some woman at the 
bottom of all this. As an old Irish friend of mine used to 
say, ‘ Whenever a young man is mysterious and unsatis- 
factory, depend upon it, it is a case of either Punch or 
Judy.’ Now, you always were verj^ abstemious, so it can’t 
be Punch, therefore it must be Jud}^” 

Both men laughed, Anthony perhaps the most heartily, 
and Mrs. Alford, charmed at this rarely granted tribute to 
her wit, chuckled for a considerable time herself, and with 
a final nod dropped on all fours again. 

“ My dear mother, what are you looking for ? ” asked 
Henry a little irritably. 


HOME-COMING 


9 


‘M am looking for mj^ — oh, what a mess the carpet is in, 
Henry ! It’s all wet. These gardeners are too careless ! 
How often have I told them to water the plants outside? ” 

“ I think it is probably the tea which you upset when you 
were waving the teapot about just now. Do tell me what 
you are looking for ? ” 

“ I dropped my what-do-you-call-it,” responded his 
mother from beneath the chair, ‘‘ and I can’t get on with- 
out it.” 

“ Your needle, do you mean, or your scissors ? ” asked 
Henry. “ Do get up, mother, — you’ll give yourself ahead- 
ache, — and do, for goodness’ sake, try to think of the name 
of the thing you dropped.” 

“ Here it is ! ” cried Anthony in triumph, suddenly diving 
under a neighboring sofa and producing a thimble. “ This 
is what you want, isn’t it ? ” 

“Thank you, dear,” returned his aunt sweetly, rising 
and resuming her seat, a little red in the face, but otherwise 
quite composed. “ Yes, that is it. Now I can get on with 
my work. Do you know this is for poor Susan Waring? 
You remember Susan Waring? What an active, stirring 
woman she was ! Well, now — would you believe it ? — ;she’s 
quite bedridden ! You must come and see her to-mor- 
row, she will be so pleased. You were always a favorite 
of hers, you know. Don’t you remember she used to say 
you were the spit-an’-image of your gran’feyther ? What 
she meant by that I don’t know, but she evidently con- 
sidered it a compliment. Oh, yes, you must come round 
the village with me.” 

Mrs. Alford prattled on blissfully for about an hour, 
while Henry read the paper with much rustling and crack- 
ling, and Anthony listened vaguely and felt a good deal 
bored. It was a relief to every one when the dressing- 
bell rang. 


CHAPTER II 


COUSINS 

When Mrs. Alford had withdrawn for the night, the two 
men retired to Henry’s special room, one of the small, ill- 
furnished, nondescript apartments which for some occult 
reason are usually beloved by the masters of old country- 
houses. Though Henry had in no way inherited the tastes 
of his predecessors, he had not done away with the traces 
of them which still remained in this family retreat, and 
had even subordinated his own thereto. His progenitors 
had been men much given to tramping over ploughed 
fields, to standing about in stable-yards, to riding fast-trot- 
ting cobs along muddy lanes ; their boots had borne testi- 
mony to these varied forms of exercise, and the floor of 
their “ study ” was in consequence economically covered 
with oil-cloth. Henry was the nattiest of mortals, a 
scholar, moreover, and a man who liked to spend wet days 
in company with his books better than tramping abroad ; 
but he preferred to add a hearth-rug disproportionally 
large, and absolutely out of keeping with the well-worn, 
almost patternless floor-covering, to removing the same. 
The walls of the room were studded with antlers, cases of 
stuffed wild-fowl, and other trophies of the chase, while the 
place of honor over the mantel-piece was awarded to a gun- 
rack, beneath which bristled a large array of well-blackened 
pipes. Henry never shot, and abhorred tobacco, but he 
treasured these tokens of his fathers’ favorite avocations 
with affectionate reverence, stowing away his own books in 
out-of-the-way corners and cupboards, and allowed his 

10 


COUSINS 


11 


very writing-table to be overshadowed by a large deer’s 
head which grinned sarcastically at all comers. 

As he sat in his father’s big leather-covered chair this 
evening — in wliich his spare and rather under-sized figure 
looked oddly out of place — Anthony was struck by the 
contrast between him and the former squires of Alford. 
They had been big, broad-shouldered men, gray-eyed and 
brown-haired as was Anthony himself, with massive limbs, 
and faces bronzed by exposure to the weather, just as his 
own was bronzed by foreign skies. Henry was dark and 
pale, with small, fine features, and black hair now turning 
a little gray about the temples, and suspiciously thin at 
the crown. 

‘‘You are not much like a Squire Alford, Henry,” 
observed Clifton between the puffs of a cigarette. 

“ Ho,” returned his cousin. “ You would act the part 
much better. Your mother was a true Alford ^nd you 
take after her. Well, it' is most probable that some day 
you will reign here, so that is as it should be.” 

“ Don’t ! ” cried Anthony hastily. “ You are much more 
likely to outlive me. You are a respectable, steady-going 
old chap, you know, and I am — well, the reverse. And 
you are content to live here from year’s end to year’s end, 
whereas I am a rover by nature. How many years is it 
since I have been in Europe, not to say England ? Fifteen. 
I scarcely know what led me to come back even for this 
flying visit. Partly, I suppose, to look you up.” 

Henry endeavored to appear gratified, but only succeeded 
in showing his incredulity. 

“ Partly for bothering business matters. I hear my 
white elephant of a house is shockingly out of repair. 
Bodenham, who has always managed my affairs, as you 
know, says I shall never get another tenant if something 
isn’t done. So Pve come to see if it is worth while patch- 
ing it up. If it is in such a tumble-down condition as 
Bodenham says, perhaps I shall leave it alone. Anyhow 


12 


A DAUGHTER OF THE SOIL 


English country life would never suit me. I shall go back 
as soon as I can to my camel-riding and elephant-hunting 
and tiger-shooting in different parts of the uncivilized 
world — and bid an everlasting farewell to my native 
land.” 

“ I don’t like to hear you talk in that strain,” returned 
Henry quickly. “ I have for a long time wished to speak 
to you on this subject. I want you to realize, Anthony, 
that as matters stand, and unless something very unlikely 
comes to pass, you will be my heir. And I wish — for that 
reason if for no other — that you would give up this 
wandering life and settle down in England. If I outlive 
you as you say, — which is most improbable, — then your 
children should succeed to this property, and keep up the 
old place and the old traditions.” 

“ Don’t talk to me of the old place and the old tra- 
ditions ! ” cried Anthony vehemently. “ The very thought 
of them oppresses me. My dear fellow, I am not fit to be 
master here ; my son, if I had one, would in all probability 
resemble his disreputable papa. Put it out of your head, 
Hal. I’m a savage by nature, and I prefer the society of 
savages ; I like to lead a wild free life — to go where I like, 
and do what I like, and be responsible to no one. I should 
go mad if I lived as you do here — you don’t live, you 
vegetate. I simply couldn’t stand it.” 

“ Then is the old race to die out ? ” 

“ Don’t count on me to perpetuate it. Why are you so 
lazy, Henry? If you think so much of the family name, 
your duty stares you in the face. You must marry as 
soon as may be, provide yourself with an heir — and let me 
go to the devil in peace.” 

Henry leaned forward and looked steadily at his cousin. 

“Anthony, what is the meaning of it all ? Will you not 
tell me ? You were once ambitious enough and eager 
enough to secure your share of the world’s goods. I don’t 
want to worry you, as my poor dear mother does, with 


COUSINS 


13 


questions, but there must be something to account for the 
change in you. You are only thirty-five, and you look 
younger ; you have been pretty wild, as I know both from 
yourself and from certain reports which have occasionally 
transpired concerning you, but you have never disgraced 
yourself in any way. Why do you talk so recklessly, as if 
every thing were over for you in life ? ” 

Anthony interrupted him with an oath : 

“ so it is ! ” 

Then, throwing himself back in his chair, he said 
peevishly : “ You said you didn’t want to worry me, Henry. 
Well, you do worry me ; please change the subject.” 

“ It is never to late too mend,” went on his cousin 
sententiouslv. “ You are a clever fellow and a good 
fellow ” 

“No, I’m not; I’m a reprobate.” 

“ Other men who have sowed wild oats in their youth 
have become decent members of society afterward,” pur- 
sued Henry. “ Why should not you ” 

“ Why should not I marry some rosy -cheeked, thick- 
headed English maiden, and go to church on Sunday, and 
receive my own rents, perhaps farm my own land, or some 
of it ? My dear chap, the prospect doesn’t smile to me. 
Now, you have carried out every part of the programme 
with the exception of the rosy-cheeked maiden. Tell me, 
do you find the life fascinating? Would you not be a 
million times happier if you were free to settle at Oxford 
with a modest professorship ? ” 

Henry laughed a little ruefully. 

“ In one way you are right. I am not by nature fitted 
for a country life. However, I accept my lot and 
endeavor to do my duty.” 

“ Good little boy ! ” exclaimed Anthony, yawning 
slightly. “As for me, I don’t believe in duty.” 

“ Come, you cannot in conscience ” began Henry, 

but his cousin interrupted him ; 


14 


A DAUGHTER OF THE SOIL 


‘‘ I have no conscience, none whatever ; no heart, no 
faith in God or man — no beliefs of any kind, in fact. I 
threw ’em overboard long ago, and find I am much more 
comfortable without ’em. I have outgrown the fine old 
myths of our childish days. Make the best of life, such 
as it is, while it lasts : that’s my maxim ! It’s a sorry 
business at best.” 

“Yet I remember the time when you thought very 
differently,” said Henry seriously. 

“ Good old solemn Hal ! You look as much shocked as 
if you were a parson ; you would make a very good parson, 
Hal. I believe you read a chapter every night before you 
go to bed.” 

“ I want to know what you have been doing with your- 
self,” persisted the squire. “ Your fiippant talk doesn’t in 
the least impose on me. What have you done with 3^0111* 
life, Anthony?” 

“ Gambled with it,” said his cousin grimly. “ There, 
you have the truth in three words. What have 3^^011 done 
with yours, Henry? Wrapped it round in a thousand 
narrow prejudices and buried it. Better my crop of wild 
oats than your mouldy existence, anyhow.” 

“ I don’t agree with you,” cried Henry, really nettled. 
“ Surely an honorable and harmless life, devoted to duty, 
is better than a life which at best is a tissue of foll3’^ ? ” 

“ Good again ! ” remarked Anthony, resuming his semi- 
recumbent position in his arm-chair, and staring at the 
ceiling. “ ‘ A tissue of folly ’ is a very fair description of 
my career, but folly is sometimes very nice. You old 
wiseacre, you don’t know how nice it is ! You’ve never 
been tempted to do a foolish thing in your life.” 

“ Haven’t I ? ” retorted Henry. “ As it happens, I am 
sorely tempted at this present time to do an excessively 
foolish thing.” 

“ You !” cried Clifton, starting up, with a shout of 
laughter. “ What, the sober old squire ! My dear chap. 


COUSINS 


15 


I’m delighted to hear it. It’s the most human thing I’ve 
heard you say yet. Why don’t you do it, old man ? ” 

“ Because I am hampered by certain old-fashioned 
principles, and — I haven’t the courage, Anthony.” 

“ Pluck up your heart, man, and don’t be weak-minded ! 
What does it matter about your wretched principles? — 
chuck them up as I did, and see how comfortable you’ll be. 
I should like to know what your folly consists in, Henry. 
I can’t connect you with any thing in the least foolish. I 
hope it’s genuine folly, and not a morbid conscience mas- 
querading under the name. You don’t want to turn 
Methodist preacher, or Roman Catholic, or any thins: of 
that kind? ” 

Mr. Alford shook his head. 

“ You must tell me, Henry. You want to gamble on 
the Stock Exchange, or to do a little quiet betting on the 
turf, or to build a new wing to the house, or to — Henry, 
be candid. Is it Punch or Judy ? ” 

Henry laughed outright, but a faint blush spread over 
his sallow face. 

“ Have you a secret longing to indulge in ardent spirits 
— or are you a sad Lothario, Henry? (You couldn’t be a 
gay one if you tried.) Oh, Henry ! I did not expect this.” 
He held up a warning finger, and laughed boyishly, as his 
cousin, with no little indignation, denied both insinuations; 
adding that he had not the smallest intention of divulg- 
ing the nature of the foolish thing in question, and had 
merely mentioned it to show that even sober-minded 
people like himself were not exempt from temptation, but 
that such temptations could, of course, be wrestled with 
and overcome. 

Pray understand,” he added stifily, “ that though I 
spoke of folly I did not intend you to suppose it criminal. 
It would be — it would be undesirable for me to yield, but 
not wrong.” 

‘‘ Would it make you happy ? ” 


16 


A DAUGHTER OF THE SOIL 


“ Yes, very happy.” 

“ Poor chap, I wish you’d do it. I’d stand by you ; 
’pon my word, if it would facilitate matters for you, I’d 
almost turn steady myself. Any thing short of matrimony 
I’d undertake for you, old man.” 

‘‘ You are very kind. As it happens, matrimony is the 
only thing you could undertake which would serve me 
materially. I wish you would think of it, Anthony.” 

“ Why don’t you marry ? Come ! ” said Clifton. “ It’s 
all very fine — why dorCt you ? Are you still thinking 
about poor Lucy Pennington, or does the — folly interfere ?” 

‘‘ Lucy Pennington’s memory will always be sacred to 
me,” said Henry, with emotion ; adding, after a short 
pause : “ I don’t want to marry because I have a notion 
that a man should give his wife an undivided heart. That 
it would be impossible for me to offer ; therefore it is better 
for me to remain single.” 

In spite of his stiff, rather pedantic manner he spoke 
with deep feeling. Anthony was amused and touched at 
the same time. 

“ Poor Lucy ! But, after all, Henry, one woman is much 
the same as another, and you could easily pick up a girl 
that would suit you just as well. As for your exalted ideas 
about undivided hearts, and all the rest of it, they would 
be thrown away on most girls. Your wife’s heart would 
probably have been pretty evenly distributed by the time 
you came, but she Avould be none the worse for that.” 

Henry, who had had enough of the conversation, now 
rose and remarked in a disapproving tone that it was time 
to go to bed. 

‘‘ Poor Henry ! ” said Anthony, laughing. 

“Poor Anthony, rather,” returned the squire, with a 
sigh. 


CHAPTER III 


BOUND THE VILLAGE 

“ Now, Tony,” observed Mrs. Alford, suddenly appearing 
on the terrace, where her nephew was comfortably installed 
on a sunny bench, “ I hope you have not forgotten your 
promise to come out with me and call on your old friends 
in the village.” 

Anthony laid down his paper with a gloomy face, and 
inwardly anathematized his old friends in the village. 

“ I am very comfortable where I am,” he said, after a 
pioment’s pause. “ You will not be so cruel as to disturb 
me ? I’ll go and see the village people to-morrow, if you 
like.” 

“And why not to-day? Procrastination is the some- 
thing'or-other of Time. It may rain to-morrow, and I’m 
all ready, Tony, and my carriage stops the way — and I’ll 
be so disappointed if you don’t come. There ! ” with a 
radiant face as Anthonj^ rose. “ That is a good kind boy. 
Now, you may carry that nice little jug of soup as a reward. 
It’s for Susan, but she’ll say a look at you is better than 
any soup, Yknow.” 

Anthony glanced regretfully round him ; the sunshine 
was gilding the stone bench on which he had been sitting, 
the bees were humming over the flower-beds in the closely 
shaven slope beneath ; the fountains were dripping lazily — 
every thing was warm and sunny and lazy ; the petunias 
and heliotrope down there smelt delicious ; he had been 
beginning to think he liked English country-houses rather, 
and now his aunt summoned him to lead her donkey over 
2 17 


18 


A DAUGHTER OF THE SOIL 


the cobble-stones, and to tramp through farm-yards, and 
to sit in stuffy rooms while old women talked about their 
ailments ! After all, he did not think he would stay long 
with his relations. 

“ Now,” said Mrs. Alford, as he ruefully took hold of 
the jug, ‘‘ now, come along, Tony, dear ; we’ll have a nice 
long afternoon if we make haste ; they’ll be so jealous if 
we miss any of them out, poor people. Don’t spill the 
soup, Tony ; I don’t think it’s quite set, and it will make 
a mess of your clothes if you don’t take care.” 

She turned and led the way, looping up her dress so that 
her nephew was enabled to observe that she wore low- 
heeled boots with elastic sides. Her black cashmere gown 
was decidedly rusty, and had a very perceptible pocket ; 
the corners of the shawl were still more ridiculously 
uneven than on the preceding day ; and her hat, tied under 
her chin with a black ribbon, would have been scorned by 
any dairy-maid. 

But in spite of her motley attire, her oddities of speech, 
her absent-mindedness, her occasional eccentricities, no 
one could be two minutes in Mrs. Alford’s presence without 
realizing the fact that she was an aristocrat, every inch of 
her, and one who knew how to uphold her dignity. 

Outside the portico stood her favorite equipage, a bath- 
chair drawn by a diminutive black donkey. A groom 
stood beside it, and a footman was also in attendance, 
holding a shawl, a large basket, and a brown paper parcel, 
from the gaping ends of which protruded certain folds of 
red flannel. 

“I shall not want you to-day. Quin,” observed Mrs. 
Alford to the groom. “Mr. Clifton is coming with me. 
Put the basket at my feet, James — the parcel can go 
behind me. Tuck in the shawl well at the sides. Just 
turn it round, Quin. Now, Anthony, we are ready.” 

She took the reins, and Quin retired, observing respect- 
fully to Clifton : “ You’ll want to be careful of the donkey 


ROUND THE VILLAGE 


19 


goin’ through the village, sir ; she has a trick o’ turnin’ in 
at all the gates she finds open.” 

The donkey wagged its long ears and set off at a sturdy 
pace, Clifton following, much hampered by the jug, while 
Mrs. Alford, clutching in turn at shawl, basket, and parcel, 
and occasionally dropping the reins, sustained a somewhat 
disjointed conversation. 

“ Isn’t this a sweet little animal, Tony ? I’ve only just 
got it. My dear Bob died of old age a few months ago, 
and I swore I never would have another pony. Kow, go 
on, Paddy ; I don’t want to go on the grass, thank you ; 
keep straight. Just tuck in this shawl, will you, Anthony ? 
Thanks. Mind the jug — whatever you do, take care of 
the jug.” 

“ Confound the jug ! ” breathed Anthony fervently to 
himself, as the sticky compound within splashed over his 
fingers. “ Come on, you little beast. What do you call 
your donkey, aunt ? ” 

“ I call it Paddy — you see, it came from Ireland. Don’t 
you think it’s a good name ? ” 

“ I think Biddy would be more appropriate,” observed 
her nephew. 

‘‘ Oh, no ; I think Paddy sounds much nicer. By-the- 
bye, that reminds me. Did I ever tell you of old Mrs. 
Goby’s gander ? You know Mrs. Goby ? She lives in the 
thatched white cottage near the church. Well, she had 
a gander called George which she loved as the apple of her 
eye. But one day when I was passing I found her in 
great trouble. ‘ What do you think, ma’atn ? ’ said she. 
‘ George laid an egg this morning ! ’ Oh, Tony, Tony ! 
I shall be upset, Anthony ! the wheel is jammed against 
the gate-post ! ” 

Paddy had profited by her mistress’s enjoyment of the 
anecdote to start suddenly sideways just as they were 
emerging into the road, and, heedless of the fact that the 
wheel was stuck fast after the manner alluded to, prepared 


20 


A DAUGHTEE OF THE SOIL 


to take herself and as much of the bath-chair as she could 
conveniently wrench away to the village, without loss of 
time. Anthony rushed to the creature’s head, and sawed 
at its iron mouth till by main force he succeeded in back- 
ing it a few steps ; then, with much inward loss of tem- 
per and visible loss of soup, Paddy was safely piloted past 
the dangerous place and turned in the right direction. 
The sun was pitilessly, glaringly hot, the road was dusty, 
and, when they fairly found themselves in the straggling 
village street, the odors from “ shippons ” and ‘‘ middens ” 
a trifle overpowering. Paddy duly made for all the gates, 
and was with difficulty hauled back, proceeding in a 
zigzag fashion, which seemed to cause her much satis- 
faction, and occasionally, to the terror of her mistress, 
hoisting one wheel of the bath-chair on the parapet. It 
was with intense relief that Anthony saw his aunt alight 
at last at Mrs. Susan Waring’s door, Paddy delivered over 
to the charge of a small boy, and the jug of soup, sus- 
piciously light, and exceedingly sticky outside, deposited 
in an obscure corner of the “ dresser.” 

Susan was in bed, — indeed, she never left her bed now, — 
and Anthony with a sinking heart followed Mrs. Alford 
up a narrow staircase, or rather ladder, into a small and 
stuffy room. Susan was sitting up, propped with pillows, 
the covers of which as well as the sheets and other bed- 
napery were spotlessly white ; muslin curtains draped the 
tiny windows, and in one bloomed a scarlet geranium. 
Some highly colored prints decorated the walls, a valen- 
tine of the most brilliant hues and facetious order obtain- 
able for a half-penny being pinned close to Susan’s bed ; 
it represented a gentleman in a check suit and a green 
tasselled smoking-cap, gazing with a distraught expression 
on two very pink babies. 

“ A’most th’ only bit o’ pleasure my poor mother has is 
lookin’ at yon,” explained Susan’s daughter, Mary, as she 
caught Anthony’s eyes travelling toward this work of art. 


ROUND THE VILLAGE 


21 


One o’ th’ lads got it off a peddlin’ chap as were goin’s 
rounds, an’ hoo took such a fancy to ’t we ’ad to let her 
’ave it.” 

“ It’s so nat’ral — eh, dear,* it is that,” put in Susan, with 
a feeble chuckle. ‘‘ Look yo’ theer at th’ silly face o’ th’ 
chap ! Seems as if he were sayin’ : ‘Eh, theer’s never two 
on yo’ ’ — same as one o’ they gomeril town bodies would, 
yo’ known. Eh, theer’s many a time when I’m feelin’ a bit 
down-’earted, when th’ pain’s bad an’ that, I calls out to 
our Mary theer : ‘Fetch a light, lass, an’ let’s have a look 
at th’ twins ’ — an’ then I’m fit to kill myself wi’ laughin’.” 

Susan spoke in a high quavering treble, her chin rested 
on her chest, and her head was afflicted with a ceaseless 
tremulous movement ; but her eyes were exceedingly 
bright and lively, her hearing was fairly good, and though 
very old, she was by no means in her dotage. 

“How’s squire?” she asked, as Mrs. Alford sat down. 
“ He’s a great stranger, is squire. Eh, as I often say to our 
Mary ’ere, ‘ Squire ’ll never be a proper village gentleman ! ’ 
Nay, ma’am, I dunnot raly think he will ; he doesn’t seem 
to be shapin’ to it, does he ? He’ll ax yo’ how y’ are, yo’ 
know, an’ never seem to take a bit o’ pleasure i’ th’ answer. 
Now, t’owd squire, — our squire, as I alius called him, feyther 
o’ your dear ’usband, ma’am, — he’d come in an’ set down so 
nice, an’ say, ‘ Now,’ he’d say to my mother, ‘now, Betty, 
let’s have a chat. How’s stoomach ? ’ he’d say, an’ my 
mother ’ud tell ’im ; an’ if hoo’d a bad foot, yo’ known, or 
a sore ’and, hoo’d unlap it an’ show him — an’ he’d never be 
in a hurry to go, wouldn’t our squire. He’d look, an’ he’d 
nod’s head, an’ he’d say, ‘ Poor soul, ye have suffered a 
deal ! I’ve never seed such a ’and in all my days,’ he’d 
say ; an’ my mother ’ud be that pleased. Eh, he was a sad 
loss, was th’ owd squire. We’s never see his like again, 
never ! ” 

“ Do you know, Susan, I have brought my nephew to 
see you,” said Mrs. Alford, who did not quite relish the 


22 


A DAUGHTER OP THE SOIL 


present topic. “Mr. Clifton — Master Anthony, as you 
used to call him.’’ 

“ Miss Louisa’s son ? ” said the old woman, endeavoring 
to turn her palsied head toward the corner where Anthony 
stood. “ Eh, I am pleased ! Eh, Mr. Anthony you ^ave 
been a stranger. Come a bit nearer, see, till I look at yo’. 
Yo’re a bonny lad, y’ are that ! An’ whatever ha’ yo’ bin 
doin’ out in Inja all this time ? Eh, isn’t he the very 
pictur’ o’ ’s gran’feyther ? The spit-an’-image, he is ! Eb, 
he is — bless his bonny face ! He’s han’some, he is. He’s 
a deal han’somer nor squire, ma’am, he is, for sure ! ” 

“ Spare my blushes, Susan,” said Anthony, who was feel- 
ing a little uncomfortable in spite of his amusement, and 
who now endeavored to edge himself away. 

But Mrs. Waring clung to him with her shrivelled hands, 
and burst into a shrill cackle. “ Your blushes, say’n yo’ ? 
Aha, Mester Anthony, yo’re none o’ th’ blushin’ kind, I 
doubt — not but what if all’s true as we’n yerd o’ yo’ ye might 
well blush a bit. Eh, they do say,” she added, gazing at him 
with a kind of awe-struck admiration, “ as yo’n been terri- 
ble wild, Mester Anthony ! Well, I will say ’t for squire,” 
elevating her voice, and looking at Mrs. Alford after the 
manner of one making a concession, “ squire mayn’t be 
what ye call han’some to look at, — he were alius a bit 
nesh, an’ he seems to be warsening as he gets owder, poor 
gentleman, — an’ he isn’t not to say clever, ye know, — 
nobbut wi’s book-larnin’ an’ that, eh, theer’s folks ’ere in 
the village as ’ill tell you as squire can scarce tell a field 
o’ wuts from a field o’ turmits, — but still, when all’s said an’ 
done, he’s good, an’ that’s every thin’, Mrs. Alford, isn’t it, 
now? Not but what,” she added, with a sly side-glance at 
Clifton, “ when I was a yoong lass I fancied th’ lads best as 
was a bit mischeevious. Now, yo’r gran’feyther, Mester 
Anthony, he wasn’t what ye might call a bad un, but he’d 
a deal o’ sperrit — a deal for a gentleman. I mind wan day 
he coom in ’ere, an’ it were as much as he could do to carry 


ROUND THE VILLAGE 


23 


himseP. If he’d ha’ been wan o’ ersePs, I’d ha’ said he was 
proper fuddled, but o’ course I wouldn’t go for to say sich 
a thing o’ th’ squire. Well, he’d been dinin’ somewheer, 
an’ ridin’ whoam at arter he’d fell off ’s ’orse some way, an’ 
theer he were wP a great nasty cut in his for’ead, an’ the 
skin hangin’ reet down ower ’s e’en. ‘ Here, Betty,’ he 
says, ‘fetch a needle an’ thread an’ sew me up,’ he says. 

‘ The missus munnot see me wP this new kind o’ veil to my 
face.’ ‘ Nay,’ says my mother, ‘ our Susan mun do ’t — 
young eyes is best,’ hoo says. ‘ Tak’ a needle, child,’ hoo 
says, ‘ an’ white thread, an’ sew squire up. Sit yo’ down, 
sir ; we’s put yo’ to reets P no time.’ Eh, I were all of a 
shake, I can tell you ; but theer, I fetched needle an’ thread, 
an’ stitched away as well’s I could, an’ squire never so 
much as hollered, an’ when all were done he says : ‘ Well, 
Susan, which mun I gP ye, a kiss or a crown piece, for doin’ 
that job for me ? ’ ‘A crown piece, please, sir,’ says I, an’ 
he gied it me, an’ th’ kiss, too, an’ he laughed fit to split, 
he did.” 

Mrs. Alford laughed too, with gentle tolerance, and then 
rose to take her leave. “We have brought you some 
soup,” she said, as she extended her hand. “ Mary, you 
will find the jug down stairs on the dresser. You like 
soup, Susan, I think, and this is really strong and will do 
you good.” 

“Ah, I can do wP a drop now an’ then,” returned Mrs. 
Waring. “ Yo’ hannot sent so much lately, ban yo’ ? Hoo 
mak’s very good stuff, your cook yonder,” she added con- 
descendingly ; “ I feel as if I had summat P my in’ards when 
I sup that. Go and fetch the jug, Mary, an’ let’s see it.” 

Mary, a bony, middle-aged woman, whose words were 
necessarily few, and who confined herself chiefly to spas- 
modic grins and incoherent murmurs of an apologetic 
order when her mother was more than usually plain-spoken, 
clumped down the ladder obediently. Anthony retired 
into the background as a sudden cessation of sounds in the 


24 


A DAUGHTER OF THE SOIL 


kitchen beneath betokened a pause of dismay on Mary’s 
part, and felt a nervous tremor when she reappeared 
with a blank countenance, handing the jug in silence to 
Susan. 

Mrs. Waring tilted it slowly and brought one eye to 
bear upon its contents. 

“ My nephew carried it all the way here for you,” said 
Mrs. Alford graciously. ‘‘ Wasn’t it kind of him ?” 

“ Ah, yo’ carried it, did yo’, Mester Anthony ? ” observed 
Susan. “ Yo’ didn’t find it none too heavy. I’ll warrant — 
unless,” with a sudden suspicion, “ye were supping it as 
yo’ coom along.” 

“ Oh, my gracious goodness, mother, however can yo’ 
goo for to say sich things ? ” ejaculated Mary. “A gentle- 
man same as Mester Anthony ! Eh, dear o’ me ! ” 

“ No, I didn’t drink it, Susan, but I must confess I spilled 
a good deal. I am sure Mrs. Alford will send you some 
more, though, and here are a few shillings to buy a chicken 
or something to keep you going.” 

“Thank ye,” said Mrs. Waring, relaxing, “I’m obleeged 
t’ ye, sir. Next time as ye’re thinkin’ o’ sparin’ me a drop 
o’ soup, ma’am, ye’d best let me know, an’ I’ll send up to 
fetch it.” 

She looked round as she spoke, but Clifton had already 
beaten a retreat, and now stood in the tiny garden without, 
inhaling the fresh air with rapture. 

“Where shall we go next, Tony, dear,” said Mrs. Alford, 
as she emerged, leaving Mary smiling in the door-way. 

“Are all your old people like that? ’’asked Anthony 
gloomily. 

“ Oh, they are not all so original as Susan — Susan is 
quite my show old woman. She’s delightful, isn’t she ? 
Well, Mrs. Alcock next door has had a baby lately — you 
wouldn’t care to have a peep at it, would you ? ” 

“ No,” said Anthony decidedly, “ I shouldn’t — I do draw 
the line at babies, aunt.” 


ROUND THE VILLAGE 


25 


“ Well, I’ll just run in for one moment to ask how she is. 
I sha’n’t be more than a minute.” 

She disappeared, and Anthony stood leaning against the 
little gate, feeling bored and cross. Mrs. Alford’s minute 
had expanded to five when Mrs. Alcock’s door opened ; 
but it was only an urchin of tender years who emerged, 
blowing a tin trumpet and capering gleefully down the 
path. 

“ I got a penny,” he remarked, pausing opposite to 
Anthony ; “Mrs. Alford gave it me.” 

Here he nodded, and looked expectantly at Clifton, con- 
tinuing in a moment : 

“ She gave it me — not to b’ow my t’umpet indoors.” 

“Did she? ’’said Anthony idly. “ Well, I’ll give you 
another not to blow it out of doors.” 

Tlie child’s chubby face assumed a dubious expression, 
but he hesitatingly held out his dirty little hand. Anthony 
produced a penny and held up a warning finger. 

“Now, remember, if I give you this, you are not to blow 
your trumpet at all.” 

The little boy looked at him and his jaw fell. 

“ Never any more ? ” he gasped, and then, clutching his 
tin treasure closer to his breast, dropped his hand and 
trotted off, casting occasional scared glances over his 
shoulder to see if Clifton was pursuing him. 

“ It’s my birthday to-day,” remarked a little black-eyed 
girl who had been peeping through the opposite gate at 
the tall stranger, “ an’ nobody never giv’ me nothin’,” she 
added, fixing a longing eye on the penny which was still in 
Anthony’s hand. 

“Oh, it’s your birthday, is it ? Well, take this penny,” 
throwing it to her, “ and buy some sweets.” 

She scrambled over the gate and into the street in a 
second, possessed herself of the penny, turning it over with- 
out enthusiasm, and observing as she turned to go : “ I had 
a birthday last week, an’ squire give me sixpence.” 


26 


A DAUGHTER OF THE SOIL 


“ She’s alius havin’ birthdays,” put in a bigger lassie, 
two or three of them having suddenly sprung up, appar- 
ently from the cobble-stones. “Her grandma gives her 
thrashin’s for it sometimes, but it don’t do her no good — 
she’s that greedy.” 

“ An’ she pegged a stone at me, she did,” cried a stout 
little corduroy-clad lad, adding himself on to the group, 
and opening his round blue eyes to their fullest extent as 
he made this surprising statement. “ She pegged a stone 
at me yester arternoon, but I pegged her one back, an’ I 
told her I’d tell th’ p’liceman — an’ I will, too.” 

“ She’s alius gettin’ pence off folks,” resumed the eldest 
of the party, “ an’ she’s goes an’ buys paradise an’ heyts it 
all by hersel’.” 

“ Can you buy paradise for a penny,” asked Anthony, 
fumbling in his pocket. 

“ Yes, sir,” came a chorus of voices. 

“ Well, paradise is cheap ; go and buy it by all means.” 

He distributed the few copper coins which he chanced to 
have about him, and smiled as the children scampered off, 
for a moment forgetting his exasperation at his aunt’s 
delay. 


CHAPTER IV 


RUTH 

Anthony stood idly watching the receding forms of the 
cliildren until they vanished into the “ shop ” where “ para- 
dise,” and kindred goods were obtainable ; on withdraw- 
ing his eyes he became aware that a much more interesting 
person was approaching on the opposite side of the sunny 
street — a girl, unusually tall, whose carriage and gait at 
once attracted his attention, so full of unconscious grace 
and dignity was the one, so bright and free and springing 
was the other. The girl was, as has been said, unusually 
tall, and her figure was more full and rounded than might 
have been expected from her very youthful face ; her 
shoulders were broad, her waist trim and well-moulded, but 
not of the wasp-like order. As she drew nearer Anthony 
saw that there was a very charming face under the wide- 
brimmed straw hat, an oval face, dark-eyed, red-lipped, 
shaded by abundant dark hair. 

Who could she be ? Not the clergyman’s daughter, for 
good old Mr. Pennington had lost his only girl, Henry’s 
betrothed, years before. Some visitor at the Rectory? 
No, for she paused here and there to speak to one or two 
of the village people, nodding and smiling with evident 
familiarity. 

“ Who is that young lady ? ” he asked, when she had 
passed, and was out of hearing. 

He addressed the boy who was leading Paddy up and 
down, or rather being towed by Paddy, from one open 
gate to another. 

“ Yon’s no young lady,” returned the youth with some 
scorn. “ Yon’s nobbut Ruth Sefton fro’ th’ Warren Farm.” 


27 


28 


A DAUGHTER OF THE SOIL 


“ What ? Bob Sefton’s daughter ? ” 

“ Ah. Woigh, lass ! Here’s Mrs. Alford coomin’.” 

“ Well, I haven’t kept you long, have I ? ” enquired 
that lady triumphantly. “ Now where shall we go ? Shall 
we look in at old Jimmy Barnes ? His rheumatism is so 
bad, poor fellow.” 

“ Aunt, it’s nearly four o’clock, do you know ? I don’t 
want to call on any more old people to-day. Take me to 
see something young if you like. By-the-way, what a 
handsome girl Ruth Sefton has grown ! She went by just 
now. Ah, she is coming back ; she has been to post a 
letter, I see.” 

“ I am so glad ; for I particularly want to see her. How 
do you do, Ruth ? I’m so pleased to see you. I know I 
want to ask you something, but I can’t remember what 
it is.” 

Ruth crossed the road, answering Mrs. Alford’s greeting 
with a little salutation that was almost a courtesy, and a 
bright smile. Then she stood waiting in perfect calmness, 
while the lady searched her memory. 

Anthony surveyed her furtively : she bore a closer 
inspection, as few girls of her standing would have done, in 
his fastidious eyes. What a skin, fine-grained and soft, 
its creamy hue occasionally overspread by a fiush which 
Murillo would have loved to render ! What beautiful 
curves, from ear to shoulder, from chin to bosom ! what 
finish in the workmanship of the straight nose, the dark 
brows, the small delicate ears ! Even the hands, though 
sunburned and not particularly small, were well shaped, and 
looked refined. The dress, too, a print with a kind of buff 
ground, was made with a severe simplicity, which was 
almost elegance — no flounces or frills, none of the tuckers 
of lace or knots of ribbon dear to the rustic soul. How 
did this girl come to be Bob Sefton’s daughter? 

“ It’s no use,” said Mrs. Alford, “ I cannot remember. I 
shall probably think of it when it is too late. This is my 


RUTH 


29 


nephew, Mr. Anthony Clifton, Ruth. You won’t remem- 
ber him, of course, — you were quite a child when he went 
away, — but your father will. Mr. Clifton must go and see 
your father some day.” 

“ Father will be pleased. I’m sure,” said Ruth, smiling. 
“ He often speaks of Mr. Anthony. I remember you, too, 
sir,” she added. ‘‘You used to come and shoot rabbits 
sometimes in the warren that runs along by the back of 
our place.” 

Her voice, Anthony remarked, was full and clear and 
pleasant in tone, the high-pitched and rather nasal local 
intonation being absent, but a faint hint of the northern 
accent perceptible in certain words. 

“ I am glad you remember me,” he said, extending his hand. 

Ruth shook hands without the least embarrassment, but 
accompanied the ceremony with the little semi-courtesy 
afore described, as though to mark her sense of the honor. 

“ I must have been at least five or six when you left,” 
she said, her eyes meeting his frankly. “ I used to go and 
peep at you from behind the corn stacks, and when I saw 
you were going to fire, I would run away. I was alwa3^s 
afraid you would shoot me by mistake, and I suppose the 
fear helped to make me remember you.” 

“ I know ! ” exclaimed Mrs. Alford triumphantly ; 
“ I remember now what I wanted to ask you, Ruth. I want 
to consult you about my poor little chickens. You know, 
I have some that I hatched myself, — in my incubator, I mean 
— and they were doing so well till lately. But now they 
have got something the matter with their dear little legs — 
I don’t know what it is. They walk on their elbows, Ruth, 
— or perhaps I should say knees, only they are turned the 
wrong way, — and their poor little claws are all curled up 
and they look so miserable. What do you advise ? ” 

“ It must be rheumatism,” said Ruth, assuming a busi- 
ness-like air. “ Chickens suffer from that, often. You 
should keep them very dry and warm,” 


30 


A DAUGHTER OF THE SOIL 


“ Wrap them in flannel, do you mean, or put them by the 
fire ? ” 

“ Not too near the fire, I think ; what I generally do, 
you know, when one of our new-hatched chickens is weak, 
is to carry it about with me, inside my dress — here,” touch- 
ing her bosom ; “ I know that no harm can come to it 
there, and one does not waste one’s time in looking after 
it. It is so pleasant,” she added, smiling, “ to hear the 
‘ cheep-cheep ’ which tells you it is beginning to revive.” 

‘‘ I don’t think even my love for my poor little chicks 
would induce me to do said Mrs. Alford medita- 

tively. “ It must tickle so. But it is just like you, Ruth ; 
I never knew such a tender-hearted creature as you are ! 
You should see her nurse a sickly lamb, Anthony, and 
really I have known her sit up all night with an injured 
calf.” 

“ Poor dumb things ! ” said Ruth. “It is hard to see 
them suffer — they don’t know why it is, and they can’t 
help themselves or tell you about it. And when they are 
used to you, they trust to you and cling to you in their 
own way, and seem to look to you to make their pain 
better.” 

“ Well, to return to my poor chickens,” resumed Mrs. 
Alford. “ What do you prescribe, Ruth ? They are much 
too big to be carried about, even if I wished to.” 

Ruth, having recommended certain remedies, took her 
leave, Anthony looking after her as she walked away. 

“ What an exquisite creature ! ” he exclaimed. “ Do 
tell me, how does she come to be honest old Bob Sefton’s 
child ? Who was Bob’s wife ? I forget. She died some 
years ago, didn’t she ? ” 

“Yes, she came from the Flyde country — a fine stirring 
woman, as they all are in that part of the world. What 
butter that woman used to make ! She was what I call an 
ideal farmer’s wife.” 

“Well, but where does the girl get her refinement 


RUTH 


31 


from ? That’s what I want to know. It’s not merely her 
beauty, though it is undeniable, but every thing about her. 
Just see how she walks, how she carries her head. She’s 
a woman in a thousand, or rather she’s unique. I never 
saw any one like her.” 

“ Yes, she is certainly a handsome girl,” assented Mrs. 
Alford. “ Now, Tony, we really must make haste, you 
know, or we shall be late for tea, and there are two or 
three places I must take you to.” 

Anthony submitted rather sullenly to be introduced to 
an old gentleman who suffered from spasms, and who 
announced with some pride that he had not closed an eye 
for three weeks. 

“ Quite impossible,” said Clifton, glad to find an outlet 
for his irritation. “ Don’t tell any sane man that. You 
couldn’t live if it were true.” 

The patient looked at him, ‘‘ unbethought himsel’,” and 
finally explained : 

“ Well, I don’t say but what I ress’es now and then, but 
I never loses conscientiousness.” 

They went next to see a child with hip-disease — a little, 
gentle, placid, brown-eyed creature, who smiled a wan 
smile at the grapes produced by Mrs. Alford from her 
basket, and whispered to her doll, which was lying beside 
her, that she should have some, too. 

“ Eh, hoo sets a deal o’ store by her doll,” said the 
mother, a thin, haggard-looking woman, overburdened with 
a large and sickly family. “ I don’t know whatever hoo’d 
do without it. Ruth Sefton gave it to her a two-three 
months ago.” 

‘‘ Did she ? ” said Anthony with more interest. “ That 
was kind of her.” 

“ Eh, hoo is th’ kindest, good-naturedest lass — I could 
never tell yo’,” returned the mother. “ When I’m busy, 
yo’ know, or have to go to town an’ that, hoo’l come here 
many a time, an’ sit with Lizzie for company — won’t hoo. 


32 


A DAUGHTER OF THE SOIL 


Lizzie ? An’ hoo’l sing to her an’ tell her stories an’ keep 
th’ other childer from botherin’ ’er. Wan day as I’d a 
many things to do and geet back whoam late — theer, if 
Ruth hadn’t set the little things to their tay — jist same 
as I would mysel’, yo’ know. Made up th’ fire an’ boiled 
th’ kettle an’ made ’em a nice bit o’ toast. Not a bit more 
particular nor if she were a poor sarvant-wench, i’stead o’ 
wan as needn’t never do a hand’s turn for nobry. Why, 
yonder at th’ Warren Farm theer’s a lass along wi’ owd 
Barbara, as hasn’t nought to do nobbut th’ ’ouse-work. 
Ruth might set i’ th’ parlor an’ be waited on ’and an’ foot. 
Hoo’s not that mak’ o’ wench — nay, boo’s a stirrin’ sort, is 
Ruth. Well, but warn’t it humble of her to see to th’ 
childer that gate ? ” 

“ How the poor woman does talk ! ” ejaculated Mrs. 
Alford, when they had left the cottage. 

“ I thought her rather a nice woman,” said Anthony. 

After two or three more calls his penance came to an 
end, and to his great joy they turned homeward. As 
Paddy condescended to keep to a steady pace, and ignored 
all usually tempting gate- ways, no further accident occurred 
to delay them. 

“ Anthony,” cried his aunt, ‘‘ just come and look at my 
chickens, poor dear little things. There are five of them. 
I was so pleased, because it is the first time I ever hatched 
any thing in my incubator. They are just outside the 
window here, in their artificial mother.” 

Anthony followed her to the terrace, and after a good 
deal of hammering at the artificial mother, and, indeed, tilt- 
ing of the same, five nondescript creatures came shufliing 
into the daylight, with half-closed eyes and drooping 
wings and ruffled plumage. Not even the Jackdaw of 
Rheims could have presented a more dismal appearance 
after the curse had fallen than Mrs. Alford’s chickens. 

“ Poor little dears ! ” ejaculated she. “ What shall we 
do with you, eh ? Aren’t they sweet, though, Tony ? I 


RUTH 


33 


hatched them in my own dressing-room, and I’ve given 
them every single meal they’ve ever had.” 

But Anthony did not respond as enthusiastically as she 
expected. 

“ You have not told me yet,” he said as they entered the 
library through the long French window, “how it is that 
the girl we saw to-day comes to speak so well, and to be so 
refined, and altogether so unlike a farmer’s daughter.” 

“ My dear Tony, how can you say so V Ruth is the very 
picture of a country girl — isn’t she, Henry ? ” as the squire 
entered the room. 

“ Isn’t w^ho what?” said Henry. 

“Isn’t Ruth Sefton a perfect country girl? Anthony 
can’t understand how she comes to be a farmer’s daughter.” 

“ She is a country girl, certainly, in all her tastes and 
pursuits — yes, and in her freshness and simplicity ; but 
I can understand what Anthony means. She is certainly 
not like the ordinary run of farmers’ daughters.” 

“I want to know why she doesn’t drop her A’^, and 
speak through her nose, and slouch when she walks.” 

Tony cannot get over her walk,” put in Mrs. Alford in 
parenthesis. 

“ Of course it is due in a great extent to a certain innate 
refinement,” said Henry ; “ But Ruth has been well edu- 
cated, too. Her mother was a Roman Catholic, — many of 
our Lancashire people are, you know, — and before she died 
it seems she implored her husband to bring up their daugh- 
ter in her faith. So Bob sent her to some convent boarding- 
school in the south — not a middle-class school by any means. 
I fancy they are rather behind the world in teaching ; but it 
is an old-established place and the tone appears to be high ; 
they have turned out Ruth a lady, if nothing else.” 

“ What nonsense you do talk, Henry ! Come and have 
some tea ! Ruth a lady ! She is far too sensible to think 
herself any thing of the sort. She is a daughter of the soil — 
a good, innocent, hard-working girl, and she has no aspira- 
3 


34 


A DAUGHTER OF THE SOIL 


lions beyond her station. I have seen her hanging up the 
washing on the hedge.” 

‘‘ So have I,” said Henry in rather a peculiar tone, and 
with a glance which seemed to betoken retrospection. 

“And she always makes up the butter, and washes the 
tea-things. She even wears a bed-gown and petticoat in 
the mornings, and clogs sometimes.” 

“ Clogs ! ” interrupted Anthony. “ She shouldn’t wear 
clogs. She’ll get into the habit of clumping, and ruin 
herself.” 

“ Ruth never looks so nice as in her working-dress,” re- 
torted Mrs. Alford. “ She is a very charming girl, and has 
only one bad point : it’s such a pity she’s a Roman Catholic.” 

“ I don’t think so at all,” said Henry ; “ Ruth’s religious 
beliefs are exactly what one would expect from her — 
simple and spiritual and earnest.” 

“ After all,” commented Anthony, “ Catholicism is the 
most poetic form of Christianity — it cannot be denied. 
There is something very grand about the ritual of the 
Church of Rome. It is at once stately and emotional, 
mystical and artistic.” 

“ Give me the thirty-nine articles ! ” said Mrs. Alford. 
“ Really I think you are both talking in a very funny way. 
You of course are hopeless, Anthony, but Henry ! I am 
surprised to hear such sentiments from you.” 

“ I was only discussing the matter from an abstract point 
of view,” returned Henry, with a little start. “ And as for 
Ruth Sefton, I can’t imagine her any thing but a Catholic, 
just as I can’t imagine her anything but a country girl.” 

Mrs. Alford yawned — it was more of a habit with her 
than the result of fatigue or want of sleep, and generally 
intimated that she had had enough of the subject actually 
under discussion. 

Henry dutifully changed the conversation to chickens 
and their ailments, and had the satisfaction of seeing his 
parent become exceedingly alert and wakeful once more. 


CHAPTER V 


O MISTEESS MINE, WHEEE AEE YOU EOAMING ? ” 

Under a very grove of palms and other tropical plants 
in the largest greenhouse sat Clifton, drowsily conscious of 
warmth and comfort and faint sweet scents of moist earth 
and moss ; an occasional whiff of stronger perfume being 
wafted to him from hothouses adjoining. A bird was sing- 
ing too, somewhere — a caged bird, probabl}^, for the warb- 
lers of the woods are mute during the summer heat — in 
little fitful gusts of song, and a bee was humming and 
droning in the glass dome overhead. He was suddenl}'- 
aroused by a breath of cool air which played upon his face : 
the greenhouse door had swung open. He sat up and 
rubbed his eyes. He had actually been asleep and dream- 
ing — a curious dream too, about that girl, Ruth Sefton. 
What odd things dreams were, to be sure ! He had cer- 
tainly not been thinking of her before he fell asleep, and 
now his mind was full of her. He rather wished he could 
dream of her again. He closed his eyes and tried to doze, 
but presently tiring of the futile effort, rose and sauntered 
into the house. 

Mrs. Alford was out. Henry was out. The house was 
silent. Hang it ! It was a dull place. What was a fellow 
to do ? 

He went into the drawing-room and began to strum on 
the piano and to hum snatches of songs. 

‘ Bonjour, Suzon, ma fleur des hois, 

Es-tu toujours la plus jolie ? 

Je reviens tel que tu me vois 

D’un grand voyage en Italic 

35 


36 


A DAUGHTER OF THE SOIL 


He broke off, staring meditatively at the keys ; and then 
began again : 

“ O mistress mine, where are you roaming ? 

O, stay and hear ; your true love’s coming 
That can sing both high and low. 

Trip no further, pretty sweeting ; 

Journeys end in lovers’ meeting 

Every wise man’s son doth know.” 

It was a curious thing that he should have dreamed of 
Ruth Sefton, and dreamed moreover that he loved, her. 
She would have been worth loving — under different cir- 
cumstances. As it was, she w’as certainly worth looking at. 
What if he went and looked at her now ? Supposing he 
made a state call on his old friend Bob Sefton ? It would 
at least help to kill time. 

Impelled by this sudden fancy he left the house and soon 
found himself in a narrow lane which led, as he knew, to 
the Warren Farm. This farm was more than a mile from 
Little Alford village, and a very quiet and retired spot, 
there being no other homesteads in its immediate neigh- 
borhood. Anthony walked briskly along the sandy path. 
It was bordered on either side by a high bank, which w^as 
pretty enough with its edging of furze-bushes and fox- 
gloves, but which effectually shut out every vestige of 
view. Presently, out of sheer impatience at being thus 
imprisoned, he climbed one of these banks and looked 
round. A golden summer land spread before him, unin- 
teresting save for its warmth of coloring and the general 
air of peace and prosperity which prevailed. Pastures with 
cattle standing in them, corn ripe for harvesting, meadows 
dark with clover, distant woods, wreathed in haze. The 
rattle of an unseen mowing-machine sounded from afar ; 
the shouts of the driver, audible in the stillness, and even 
the crack of his whip ; but not a human figure was in 
sight. Yes, there was one ; the very one, too, that Anthony 


‘‘ O MISTRESS MINE, WHERE ARE YOU ROAMING ? ” 37 

desired to meet. Crossing a field at some little distance he 
descried Ruth ; she walked swiftly, looking neither to 
right nor to left — now she came to a low railing and swung 
herself over it with the ease and grace peculiar to herself. 
Anthony watched her till he found she was turning in the 
opposite direction to her home ; upon which he resolved to 
follow her. He cared little to call on Bob Sefton when 
Ruth was not there ; he could soon catch her up and escort 
her at least as far as the village. A chat with her would 
help to while away the afternoon, and her beautiful face 
was, as he repeated, worth looking at. 

He descended the bank and hastily retraced his steps ; 
but, to his surprise and chagrin, when he reached the spot 
where the lane joined the road which led to Little Alford, 
Ruth was not in sight. 

After a moment’s pause of frowning dismay he again 
climbed the bank which had so long hidden her from his 
eyes, and looked round once more. Was that the flutter of 
her skirls yonder behind that tall hedge ? Yes — there it 
was again. She was proceeding in a straight line across 
country instead of turning into the road as Anthony had 
expected. Where could she be making for ? Never mind, 
he would follow, wherever it might be ; she would wonder, 
when he came up with her, why he had pursued her thus. 
But he could easily find some excuse — or what if he made 
no excuse? If he said “I wanted to see yow, Ruth”? 
Would she blush and smile and drop those lovely eyes of 
hers in shy pleasure ? Or would she be indignant, or 
simply amazed ? He pressed on, leaping the wide ditches 
where the irises and forget-me-nots and marsh marigolds 
flourished amain, scrambling through hedges and anathe- 
matizing the branches of dog-rose which caught him as he 
passed, round about a waving, rustling field of wheat — 
why was it not permitted to ford the golden green sea. 
Tlie flutter of Ruth’s draperies, always just a quarter of a 
mile ahead — up one of “ those infernal banks,” and then. 


38 


A DAUGHTEE OF THE SOIL 


Hallo ! What was this ? Why, of course he should have 
remembered. Here was the high-road — the road which 
led to Brooklands, and yonder was the little Roman Catho- 
lic chapel ; of course it was there that Ruth had bent her 
steps. Her figure was not in sight, though the road here 
was straight enough ; she must already have entered. 

Anthony approached the tiny edifice, and after a 
moment’s hesitation opened the door softly. He would 
wait within till she had finished her devotions ; she would 
not suppose, even if she turned and saw him, that he had 
gone there on her account. 

But Ruth did not turn ; her head was bent, her hands 
clasped, her whole attitude one of prayer. Anthony sat 
down on one of the wooden benches at the end of the 
church and looked round ; it was a poor little place enough, 
but very clean and well kept ; none of the appointments 
jarred on his artistic sense of proportion. The statues 
were of white plaster only, but well modelled ; the 
crucifix, an old one of wood, of some value as a work of 
art. A lamp hanging in front of the altar cast a tempered 
light round. It was very quiet there — quiet and restful, 
and the girl’s figure, kneeling so still near the altar-rails, 
seemed to harmonize with it's surroundings. Her back 
was of course turned to Anthony, and after a little time 
he began to feel impatient. Why did she not move ? He 
believed she knew he was there and was purposely affect- 
ing to be absorbed in devotion. He wanted to see her 
face. What did it look like when she prayed ? Presently, 
prompted by an impulse of which he afterward felt 
ashamed, he arose and approached her. He saw her face 
then, for one instant, and paused ; but it was too late to 
withdraw now — she had caught sight of him. She looked 
up, genuinely startled, and Anthony felt angry with him- 
self for his momentary suspicion. He drew a step nearer. 

“Ruth, pray for me,” he whispered hastily, eager to 
make some excuse for thus venturing to disturb her. 


“ O MISTRESS MINE, WHERE ARE YOU ROAMING ? ” 39 

“Yes, Mr. Anthony,” said Rutli quite simply; the 
color, which had sprung to her face, left it as swiftly as it 
had come, and she turned her eyes toward the altar again. 

Clifton walked softly away, and left the church, mak- 
ing straight for Alford. He was confounded by the 
girl’s innocent directness, ashamed of himself, of the part 
he had played, of the attitude he had been prepared to 
assume toward her. He had intended to amuse himself 
during the homeward walk ; she could not well decline his 
escort — a little good-humored chaff would soon put them 
on a friendly footing, he had fancied ; but now he relin- 
quished the idea with sudden remorse. 

“ That is a good girl ! ” he said to himself. The 
momentary glimpse of her face as she prayed had been a 
revelation to him. What faith, what reverence ! Well, 
it was very beautiful to see — too beautiful to disturb ; 
Ruth was a girl to be admired and respected, not played 
with. He would leave her alone. 

A day or two later on, however, he came upon her 
again in a totally unexpected fashion. Urged by Mrs. 
Alford, he had gone to call on the rector, who was, much 
to his satisfaction, away from home, and, returning by the 
high-road, he had discovered Ruth in parley with a tipsy 
man, a very tipsy man, as the first glance assured him — 
a blear-eyed, dirty, disreputable -looking old rufiian in that 
stage of intoxication which precedes absolute unconscious- 
ness. Yet Ruth’s eyes were bent kindly on him as he 
stood propped up against a gate leering stupidly at her ; 
and her hand actually rested on his ragged sleeve. 

“Come, now. Jack,” she was saying persuasively. “It’s 
only a little wa}^, you know. Come ! ” 

“Ugh! ’’said Jack, proceeding to make some wholly 
inarticulate remark, and affectionately clinging to the 
gate-post. 

“Just a few steps,” urged the girl, “and you can lean 
on my arm if you like.” 


40 


A DAUGHTER OF THE SOIL 


Anthony, wlio did not approve of this suggestion, ap- 
proached quickly. “ Ruth,” he said abruptly, you had 
better come away. That old fellow is — disgustingly 
drunk, not fit for you to speak to.” 

“Ugh!” grunted Jack again, as though endorsing the 
remark. 

“Don’t mind us, please, Mr. Anthony,” said Ruth, 
recovering from her first surprise and speaking in a low 
voice. “The poor old man is a friend of mine. I can 
alwa3"S manage him. Come, Jack, come — take my arm.” 

Jack pointed with his shaking fore-finger at Clifton, 
stared wildly, and laughed idiotically. 

“ If you wouldn’t mind going on, sir,” suggested Ruth, 
“I think I could manage him better. He knows me, you 
see. I shall soon persuade him to go home.” 

“ Take my advice and leave him,” said Anthony 
authoritatively. “ You should not have any thing to say 
to him while he is in this condition. Leave him for the 
present ; I dare say he will get sober enough to find his 
way home by and by.” 

“ Qh, no, he won’t,” she cried anxiously. “ I know what 
he is. He will drop down like a log and lie here for 
hours — and it is so dangerous. He might suffocate, or be 
run over. A cart did go over him once and break his 
leg,” she added in tones of distress. 

“Serve him right 1 ” muttered Clifton ; adding, after a 
pause : “ I am not going to leave 3^011 with the creature, 

though. Perhaps I can help 3^ou ; I’ll take one arm and 
you — if you insist on it — can take the other.” 

Jack, apparently too “far gone” to object, stumbled 
on between them, slowl3’’, and with difiicult3". He was 
a filthy and unsavory old rascal ; but though Anthon3^ 
stole an occasional indignant glance toward Ruth, he 
could detect neither disgust nor horror in her face. At 
last they reached Jack’s cottage, pushed open the door, 
and, at Ruth’s suggestion, placed him on a battered horse- 


“ O MISTRESS MINE, WHERE ARE YOU ROAMING ? 41 

hair-covered couch in the corner. Antliony stood aside, 
watching her with a mixture of displeasure and admiration 
while she loosened the old man’s neckcloth, and unfastened 
his frowsy collar. He was already heavily asleep. 

“ He’ll be all right when he comes to himself,” she said, 
with a deprecating smile, as she turned away at last. 

Anthony followed her out of the cottage— a solitary 
tumble-down little dwelling at some distance from the 
village. 

“ Do you make a practice of seeing home all the inebri- 
ates of the neighborhood ? ” he asked abruptly, as they 
emerged. 

“ Oh, no,” said Ruth, flushing, “ I — poor Jack is an 
exception. He used to work for us, and I was very fond 
of him. He used to be so good to me as a child, 1 can 
never forget that ; he was a kind, simple, harmless creature; 
but he is drinking himself to death now, I’m afraid.” 

“So I should think,” said Antliony, still unconvinced. 
“ He seems a thorough old reprobate, I must say.” 

' “ I’m always afraid of something dreadful happening to 
him,” she pursued. “ I am always expecting to hear he 
has been run over, or that he has fallen into a ditch ; and I 
feel so sorry sometimes when the village boys jeer at him 
and torment him — children are so thoughtless.” 

“ Well, I don’t want to appear unkind,” remarked 
Anthony, “but I should say the feelings of your protege 
must be pretty well deadened. He doesn’t strike me as a 
sensitive person, by any means.” 

Ruth looked annoyed. “Of course I can quite under- 
stand your looking down on him, sir,” she said quickly, 
“ but I cannot forget what he was long ago, before his 
troubles. You know, it was trouble that drove him to 
this,” she added more gently. 

Anthony’s whole expression changed. 

“ So you think trouble is an excuse for any thing ? ” he 
said softly. 


42 


A DAUGHTER OF THE SOIL 


“Not an excuse exactly, — I suppose there is really no 
excuse for doing wrong, — but I always feel, somehow,” 
hesitatingly, “ that we should not he hard on people who 
have suffered a great deal. And as far as I am concerned,” 
she added, with a little laugh, “ I could forgive almost any 
thing in a person I was fond of.” 

They had been standing just outside the old man’s cot- 
tage, and now both moved on. 

“ I must be getting home,” she said. “ Many thanks for 
helping me, sir. Good-by.” 

She was gone ; but Anthony remained looking after her 
for a moment or two. 

“ If I thought there were a God,” he said half aloud, “ I 
should say ‘ God bless her ! ’ ” 


CHAPTER VI 


THE WARREN FARM 

Early in the morning after his meeting with Ruth and 
her tipsy friend Anthony left the house on the ostensible 
pretext of picking up a few rabbits before breakfast. He 
took his gun, indeed, but walked at such a round pace and 
with so little precaution that no rabbit with the faintest 
vestige of common-sense would have been taken unawares. 

His way lay through the park, where the dew lay 
sparkling in the morning sun, and light gossamer fila- 
ments, unseen save where moisture beaded them with 
minute silvery drops, floated against liis face. 

“ Fils de la Yierge ! ” as the quaint old saying over the 
water went. Anthony dwelt on it with an odd pleasure. 
There was, indeed, he thought, a kind of unearthly inno- 
cence in the placid morning hours. Every thing was so 
fresh and sweet and pure in the young daylight, the very 
face of nature seeming clothed with a new power and 
glory. He could almost believe that virginal fingers had 
been at work yonder under the blossoming branches, 
that light unreal feet had struck out that silvery path 
across the open, that the faint and exquisite morning 
scents had been wafted from the garments of some pass- 
ing spirit. 

He passed on, laughing to himself at the conceit, and 
soon found himself climbing the range of sand-hills which 
bounded the warren familiar to him as a boy. 

Yonder was the sea lapping slowly up among the dark 
scattered remains of the submarine forest which broke 
the monotony of the glittering expanse of sand beneath 

43 


44 


A DAUGHTER OF THE SOIL 


the dunes. The water seemed to laugh this morning, to 
dimple in the sunliglit ; and the wavelets ran in and out 
of the brown narrow ridges like children playing hide and 
seek. Even the muddy brackish river beyond wore the 
color of the summer sky. 

But inland was a sight which interested him more — a 
cluster of roofs thatched and tiled, one longer and loftier 
than the rest, covered with greenish stone slabs ; a fine 
array of hay-ricks and corn-stacks were grouped among 
them, and crossing the sunlit space between he caught 
sight of a figure that he recognized. He walked quickly 
along the crest of tlie hill, pausing when near enough to 
see more distinctly. The girl’s face was hidden by a white 
sun-bonnet the strings of which hung loose ; but the form, 
displayed to advantage in its becoming north-country dress, 
could be no one’s but Ruth’s. He could hear her voice, too, 
loud and musical, as she called the chickens to be fed ; and 
now she was scattering the corn among them with round 
free gestures. She was incapable of an angular movement, 
it seemed ; he watched the sweep of her arm with curious 
pleasure. 

A collie which had been sunning himself under a stack 
rose, stretched himself, and drew near her, wagging his 
tail. An unseen calf bleated piteously; evidently it knew 
her voice. 

Now some one was calling from within : “Ruth, Ruth, 
coom thy ways in an’ dunnot be so wasteful. Thou’s gi’eii 
they chickens enough stuff to -last ’em for a week.” 

“ Eh, we cannot let them clem, can we ? ” answered 
Ruth. 

“ Coom thy ways in as how ’tis. Doesn’t thou hear clock 
strikin’ ? It’s gone eight, an’ tay not made, nor cloth laid, 
an’ Maggie busy i’ th’ wash-’ouse. Saturday an’ all — an’ 
thy feyther as has bin agate sin’ dayleet. He’ll coom in 
fit to heyt all ’at’s i’ th’ ’ouse, an’ find nought ready.” 

“ Coming, coming ! ” cried Ruth, throwing a last handful 


THE WARREN FARM 


45 


to some stragglers which had not had their share before, 
and then hastening across the yard and entering the house. 

Anthony began to descend the hill slowl}^, wondering if 
he might venture to intrude at this early hour, and long- 
ing to find some plea wliich would obtain for him an invi- 
tation to share the homely farm breakfast. There could 
be no harm in wisliing to see the girl in the presence of her 
family ; and the experience would be amusing. 

While he was hunting in his mind for a pretext, he was 
suddenly hailed with a stentorian ‘‘ Hallo ! ” and, looking 
down, he descried a tall and portly figure with an empty 
sack thrown over its coatless shoulders, and an immense 
chip hat shading a face that he remembered of old, though 
the double chin now bade fair to become a treble one, and 
the whiskers had turned gray. 

“ Hallo, Bob ! ” said Anthony, I’m glad to see you. 
Can I come down this way ? ” 

Farmer Sefton placed his legs more widely apart, slowly 
tilted his person a little backward, pushed the wide 
brimmed hat off his brows, and then, in somewhat incon- 
sistent fashion, shaded his eyes with his hand. 

“ Con yo’ coom down this gate ? Well, I reckon yo’ can 
if yo’n any business ’ere this time o’ th’ day, but if yo’ 
ha’n’t I’d advise yo’ to cut afore Warrener Jim leets on 
yo’, or wan o’ they keepers fro’ th’ Hall yonder. ‘ Bob,’ 
say’n yo’ ; yo’r mighty free, my lad, but I can’t call to 
mind as I’ve clapped e’en on yo’ till now.” 

“ Yes, you have'” said Anthony, leisurely climbing over 
the fence and down beside the farmer. Many a time, 
Bob ! What ! don’t you remember the time we went 
eel bobbing ? ” 

‘‘Eel-bobbing!” said Sefton, knitting his brows; “I 
hanna gone bobbin’ for snigs this sixteen year an’ more. 
Let’s see — who han we getten ’ere ? Eel-bobbin’ ! Eh, by 
th’ mass ! It’s Mester Anthony ! I’m proud to see yo’, 
sir, an’ I’m ashamed o’ not knowin’ ye ; but I reckoned yo’ 


46 


A DATJGHTEE OF THE SOIL 


was wan o’ they chaps as is alliis agate o’ shootin’ o’ th’ 
shoore.” 

‘‘ I thought you would have heard I was staying at the 
Hall.” 

‘‘ Well, now that I unbethink mysel’, our Ruth did say 
summat, but I didn’t tak’ mich notice, we’re that busy, ye 
see, gettin’ hay in and that. Eh, but I’m fain to see ye, 
Mester Anthony ! Ah, ’twas th’ eel-bobbin’ that staggered 
me. ‘ Eel-bobbin’,’ says you, an’ I bethinks mysel’ who 
were it was with me when I last went bobbin’ for snigs, 
an’ it cooms in a flash : ‘ Mester Anthony ! ’ Eh, we had a 
gradely do, yon time, sir, hadn’t we ? Well — yon’s our 
ovvd Barbara lookin’ out for me ; I’ve bin agate sin’ afore it 
were leet, an’ I’m fair clemmin’. But it’s early for yo’ to 
be out, too ; wunnot yo’, if yo’ll not tak’ my axin’ yo’ amiss, 
wunnot yo’ step in an’ have a bite o’ summat ? ” 

> “I think I will if I sha’n’t be in your way, Bob. Break- 
fast won’t be ready at the Hall for an hour or more. But 
I hope it won’t put your daughter out.” 

‘‘An’ what should it put her out for? Hoo can put 
another shovelful o’ tay i’ th’ pot, an’ pop another rasher 
i’ th’ pan, an’ theer ! It ’ll happen vex owd Barbara a bit, 
for hoo likes company best i’ th’ parlor an’ all gradely, but 
I reckon ye’ll not be too proud to set down just same as 
oursel’s, Mester Anthony. Well, coom on, then. In wi’ 
thou, Barbara,” raising his voice, “ don a clean apron ! 
Squire Clifton’s coomed to breakfast wi’ us. Eh, th’ owd 
lass ’ll be some mad wi’ me ! Now, stir thj^sel’; I’m fair 
famished — but theer, I’m used to it ! I’m alius sharp set, 
I can tell yo’, Mester Anthony ; I could do wi’ a pound o’ 
beef every hour an’ be clemmin’ at after.” 

In the big low-ceilinged family" living-room Ruth awaited 
them ; as they entered she was in the act of preparing a 
place for Anthony, and, having set a chair for him, came 
forward with a bright smile to welcome him. She had 
removed her bonnet, and the breeze coming in through 


THE WARREN FARM 


47 


the open door-way ruffled tlie tendrils of hair round her 
brow : what an open, candid brow it was ! and how 
charmingly the hair grew about it, with a natural wave, 
and evidently unacquainted with either tongs or scissors. 

Presently entered Barbara, the old servant, who ruled her 
master with a rod of iron, and was even now preparing a 
lecture to be administered to him after the departure of 
their visitor. The fashion of her dress was the same as 
Ruth’s own, except that the girl’s “ bed-gown ” was of 
pink print, and Barbara’s of lilac, and the latter’s white 
locks were smoothed away under an imposing-looking cap. 
She was followed by a tall youth, ruddy-faced and fair- 
haired, whose habitually open mouth gave him an appear- 
ance of stupidity which those who knew him declared to 
be unmerited. He slouched forward without speaking, 
and took possession of the nearest chair. 

“ Barbara, don’t you remember me ? ” asked Clifton, as 
she advanced with her hand under her apron in preparation 
for presently grasping his. 

“ Ah,” said Barbara, “ dipping ” a courtesy, and suffering 
a sour smile to play about her features. With a final 
polish of her hand she presented it to Anthony, and after 
he had duly shaken it restored it to its former place. 
Then, turning to Ruth, she desired her abruptly to get ’em 
all to work while she fetched bacon. Ruth poured out 
Anthony’s tea and paused when about to add the milk ; 

“ You will like cream, I know. I’ll get some in a minute.” 

She rose and left ther room in spite of his assurances that 
cream was a wholly unnecessary luxury. He even hastened 
after her, repeating his remonstrances ; but she held on 
her way with gentle obstinacy, and, still followed by her 
guest, crossed the yard and entered a long, low room in 
one of the outbuildings. This was the dairy, a delicious 
place, cool and rather dark after the blazing sunshine 
without, such light as filtered through the narrow win- 
dows being tinged with green, so dense was the growth of 


48 


A DAUGHTER OF THE SOIL 


ivy without on the wall in which they were set. The long 
shelves, made of slabs of yellowish stone, bore a goodly 
array of earthenware pans, with here and there a wooden 
bowl piled high with eggs ; the air was full of the faint, 
peculiar smell of cream. 

Taking a tin skimmer, Ruth began to fill the small jug 
she had brought with her ; Anthony watched for a moment 
the thick yellow cream wrinkling as the skimmer crossed 
the basin. Then he looked round at the homely scene, and 
then at Ruth herself — her bent head, with sunlight from 
the door resting upon the rim of her oval cheek ; her down- 
cast eyes, with their full lids and long dark lashes. George 
Eliot had described a somewhat similar scene, he thought 
to himself, but what a dilference between Hetty Sorrel^ 
“that distracting kitten-like maiden,” vain, coquettish, 
selfish, and this grave and dignified Ruth ! How uncon- 
scious she was of her own beauty and of his admiration ; 
he watched her narrowly, but could detect no sign of 
embarrassment, no thought beyond her wish to be 
hospitable. 

“ There ! ” she said, laying down her skimmer and wiping 
the jug with a clean white cloth. “I am sony to have 
kept you waiting so long — but, indeed,” with a sudden sur- 
prise, “ I don’t know why you should have waited, sir.” 

“ Your dairy is charming,” said Anthony. “ I am de- 
lighted to have seen it. Don’t be in a hurry to go. It re- 
minds me of — of all sorts of things, the days of my youth 
among the rest. Do you know, my greatest delight as a 
small boy used to be to make my way to the dairy at home, 
and persuade the dairy-maid to give me a drink of cream 
out of a skimming thing like that of yours. I wish you 
would give me one, now, for the sake of old times.” 

“ Well, that is a funny fancy,” exclaimed Ruth, with a 
laugh. 

“ Well, but — will you ? ” 

“Yes, if you like, sir ; but we must not be long, because 


THE WARREN FARM 


49 


my father is waiting for his tea.” The skimmer flashed 
round the pan again, and then Ruth offered it to Anthony. 

“ Oh, no, you must hold it,” he cried, putting his liands 
behind him, “ otherwise the illusion will not be complete.” 

Her brows contracted with momentary impatience, but 
she smoothed them again, and smiled as one might smile at 
a child. 

“Be quick, please,” she said, holding out the dipper. 

But Anthony drank very slowly, anxious to make the 
most of a new and fascinating experience. Ruth’s loose 
sleeve fell back from her round white arm ; the dark eyes, 
necessarily raised a little as she presented the dipper to 
this tall man, remained frank and grave as ever, the color 
did not deepen in her smooth cheek. Anthony’s pulses had 
quickened during the ceremonj^, but he knew that if he 
were permitted to lay a finger on that firm sunburned 
wrist he would detect no change in the regular beating 
beneath. 

When he wiped his mustache at length he detected an 
expression of relief on Ruth’s face, and thought with 
momentary pique that Hetty Sorrel would not have been 
so glad to get rid of Arthur Donnithorne. Was Hetty the 
truer woman of the two? As he returned to the house in 
Ruth’s wake, however, he dismissed the notion with scorn. 
Hetty was a little shallow creature, incapable of deep 
emotion — now, if this girl were to be loved as Arthur \o\Qd 
Hetty — no, not as Arthur loved Hetty ^ but as a true man 
should love a noble woman — if one were to stir the depths 
of that rich nature, to rouse the hitherto undreamed of 
capabilities hidden away behind that placid exterior, it 
would be — well, it would be worth seeing. 

With this somewhat lame conclusion he rejoined the 
family party. A smoking dish of bacon swimming in 
gravy now occupied the centre of the table, and Barbara, 
standing in Ruth’s place, was dispensing tea. 

“Well, I’m sure I dunno whatever’s come to ’ee, lass,” 
4 


50 


A DAUGHTER OF THE SOIL 


she remarked as she made way for her. Thou met ha’ 
bin waitin’ for the cow to be milked i’stead of fetching a 
sup o’ cream. We couldn’t wait, thou knows — thy feyther 
were gettin’ quite vexed.” 

‘‘ I am glad you didn’t,” said Ruth. “ Mr. Anthony said 
being in the dairy reminded him of when he was a little 
boy, and used to beg the dairy-maid at the Hall for a drink 
of cream out of the dipper. And what do you think ? ” 
she added, laughing, he would insist on my giving him 
one now.” 

“ Well, did you ever ! ” ejaculated Barbara, while Bob 
Sefton paused in the act of conveying a huge piece of bacon 
to his mouth, and, resting his knife and fork on end, 
uttered a “ Ho ! ho ! ho ! ” which made the room echo 
again. The fair-baired youth who sat opposite Anthony 
fixed an unwinking stare upon bim, munching his bread 
and bacon the while ; even when he gulped down his tea, 
his round bltje eyes continued to gaze at the stranger over 
the edge of the cup. Anthony took a violent dislike to 
him on the spot ; indeed he was already somewhat annoyed 
at Ruth’s indiscretion. 

‘‘Thou met ha’ the manners to give Squire Anthony 
some bread, Luke,” observed Barbara presently, address- 
ing the young man. “ There thou sits sbovellin’ down all 
thou can get into tho’, an’ niver a thought to other folks. 
Cut a slice or two off th’ loaf an’ dunnot be sich a noddy.” 

Luke obeyed ; his fingers narrowly escaping the bread- 
knife in his unwillingness to withdraw his gaze from 
Anthony during the operation. 

Barbara crossed the room ; shouted one or two direc- 
tions to the kitchen, where several of the laborers were 
partaking of their morning meal under the supervision of 
Maggie ; and finally, returning to the table, sat down beside 
Luke, helped herself to bread and bacon, and unceremo- 
niously requested her young mistress to give her some tea. 

“Well, Mester Anthony, I shouldn’t ha’ thought yo’d 


THE WARREN FARM 


51 


ever have been so childish,” observed the farmer, after 
masticating and ruminating for some time. “ Out of the 
dipper ! That beats all.” 

“ Thou met’s well ha’ fetched g, cup, Ruth,” put in 
Barbara, “ or raly, if thou had but gi’en a call to Maggie, 
boo’d ha’ got thee wan. Any body ’ud think thou was a 
poor foolish kind o’ lass wi’out a bit o’ sense, the way 
thou goes on. As I alius says to feyther — yo’r pains an’ 
yo’r brass is thrown away on Ruth. What’s th’ good of 
all that fine schoolin’ yo’n gi’en her ? Hoo’s nobbut same 
as a child at th’ end. An’ yo’ payin’ out sich a deal for 
her dress hersel’ fine, an’ that — why, yo’ll never see her 
with a ribbon or a flower same as another lass, an’ hoo’ll 
wortch, an’ clean up, an’ do for hersel’ same as if hoo 
belonged to cottage folk. Yo’ll never get her to tak’ a bit 
o’ decent pride in hersel’.” 

These remarks were made for Anthony’s benefit ; Barbara 
was still “ mad,” as her employer expressed it, at being 
taken unawares. She liked “ every thing gradely ” when 
she entertained company : the furniture prepared, the fine 
damask table-cloth spread with the best china and the 
silver tea-pot and spoons ; a variety of dishes, moreover, 
testifying to her culinary skill, while her mistress and 
herself were arrayed in their Sunday gowns. And be- 
hold, a visitor coming to breakfast before half the morning 
work was done ;»nothing to olfer him but the most ordi- 
nary fare ; Maggie such a sight with her Saturday clean- 
ing that she could not appear to wait on them, and she 
herself and, worse still, Ruth, clad in bed-gown and petti- 
coat ! There was the gaffer, too, sitting down to table in 
his shirt-sleeves and with unwashed face. No wonder 
Barbara considered it incumbent on her to convey, after 
her own fashion, to Squire Clifton that, if things were 
homely at the Warren Farm, it was from choice and not 
from necessity. Anthony scarcely heeded her, but Farmer 
Sefton was somewhat annoyed, 


52 


A DAUGHTER OF THE SOIL 


“Theer — keep thy mouth shut, will thou? My Ruth’s 
a good lass — I wunnot have her barged at. Hoo looks all 
th’ handsonier if hoo does dress hersel’ plain, an’ hoo’s all 
the better for wortchin’ a bit — same as me an’ her mother. 
Hoo’s reet to be house-proud, so theer.” 

“You like me to do for you, don’t you, father?” said 
Ruth, and Anthony caught the tenderness in her soft eyes 
as they rested a moment on the old farmer’s face. “And 
between ourselves, so does Barbara. I wonder what she’d 
say if I were to sit down and do nothing while she is trot- 
ting about. We should hear a different story then.” 

“ Nay, nay,” returned Barbara, relaxing a little. “ Theer 
is no need for ’ee to do a hand’s turn, lass, an’ thou knows 
there isn’t. But of course if thou’s a fancy for sich like, 
it’s nobbut waste o’ breath to try to hinder thee.” 

Here a diversion was caused by Luke pushing back his 
chair and rising from table. 

“ Wheer art thou fur?” enquired Farmer Sefton. 

“The Six-bits,” responded the youth, in husky tones. 
“ Tom ’ll be agate mowin’.” 

“ Ah, off wi’ thee ! ” said the farmer. “ I’ll be theer in a 
two-three minutes.” 

Anthony rose also, having no further excuse for stop- 
ping, but announced that he would accompany Bob, as their 
ways lay in the same direction. 

“ Aye, yo’ can coom if ye like,” returned the farmer, 
without any great alacrity. “ Ruth — fill up, theer’s a 
good lass.” 

He held out a deeply colored and highly odoriferous 
pipe, which his daughter duly filled, and at which he 
sucked vigorously while she applied a match to the 
tobacco. 

“ Now, then, Mester Anthony ; I’m off if yo’re readj^” 

Anthony took his leave and presently the pair dis- 
appeared, Ruth looking after them with a smile. 

“You’d scarcely think he was the squire’s cousin,” she 


THE WARREN FARM 


53 


remarked. ‘‘ He’s very simple for one who has travelled 
so much.” 

“ Simple ! ” ejaculated Barbara, He’s none such a fool 
as he’d have us think. Eh, however could thou go for to 
give him a drink out o’ th’ dipper, lass ? ’Twas but for 
a marlock he axed thee. He must ha’ thought ’ee a fine 
noddy. I’ll reckon.” 

“No, he didn’t,” said Ruth quickly, but she colored all 
the same. 


CHAPTER VII 


EXPLANATIONS 

Anthony and his companion walked along for some 
time without speaking, but presently Clifton broke silence 
by asking the name of the young man who had break- 
fasted with them. 

“ Luke Aughton d’ye mean ? He’s — well now, it’s a bit 
diflScult to explain to yo’ — he’s a kind of a nevvey o’ 
mine. Yo’ mind my sister Mary as married yonder wan 
o’ they Tyrers o’ Brooklands ? Ah, happen yo’n forgot- 
ten. Well, Mary wed first a man as was called Snippet — 
a baker he were, an’ they’d six childer. He was sowd 
up an’ he deed, poor chap, an’ then Mary wed Tyrer o’ 
Brooklands, and they had six childer more. Well, but 
Tyrer buried a wife afore he wed our Mary, an’ he’d 
seven children by her — how many does that mak’ ? ” 

“ Nineteen.” 

‘‘Nineteen — ah, an’ that were pretty well, warn’t it? — 
but yo’ han’t heerd all yet. Tyrer’s first wife was a widow 
afore she wed him, an’ hoo had three childer by the first 
husband — so that were twenty-two in all. Ho ! ho ! ho ! 
Twenty-two — did you ever hear o’ sich a tale? Luke 
Augh ton’s wan o’ that lot — th’ tothers was lasses — wan 
geet wed an’ wan went to. sarvice. But this lad — theer he 
was, an’ our Mary couldn’t do wi’ him at all. ‘Tyrers an’ 
Snippets is enough for any woman,’ hoo’d say — ‘ but they 
three Aughtons to ’em — eh,’ hoo’d say, ‘it’s enough to 
break a body’s ’eart.’ Well — arter a bit they geet agate 
o’ fightin’, th’ lot on ’em, an’ Luke Aughton thrashed 
Tommy Snippet. Eh, my word ! Our Mary took the 
besom to Luke, an’ Tyrer sauced her for’t, an’ hoo coom 

54 




EXPLANATIONS 


55 


cryin’ to me an’ hoo said, ‘ Eh, Bob, for pity’s sake tak’ yon 
lad off me. He’s a good lad when he’s let alone,’ hoo said, 
^ an’ he’ll be company for your Ruth. And theer’s a many 
odd jobs as he can do — but, eh ! ’ hoo says, ’we’n too many 
on ’em yonder.’ — ‘ Reet ! ’ says I, ’pack th’ youngster off 
our way. I can do wi’ him, I dessay’, says I, ‘ an’ we’s find 
him a bite o’ mate, an’ a bed.’ Well, he coom. He were 
a well set-up little lad an’ very sharp, so I took to him 
fro’ the first — an’ theer’s he’s bin iver sin’.” 

“ Sharp ! ” remarked Anthony, “ I shouldn’t have thought 
he was sharp, to look at him.” 

“ All, but he is, sir ! He’s alius got’s mouth bangin’ oppen, 
an’ that gives him a stupid kind of a look ; but I can tell 
yo’ he keeps his e’en an’ his years oppen too. He does that. 
He’s one o’ th’ better mak’ o’ chaps, is Luke, an’ a great 
favoryite. Our Ruth used to think a deal of him when 
hoo were a little wench — but hoo doesn’t seem to mak’ so 
mich count on him sin’ hoo’s coomed fro’ scliool. I thought 
they’d happen wed — an’ I’d liked th’ match well enough, 
for Luke he’s mich the same as my own lad, an’ Ruth ’ull 
have all as I’m worth when I’m gone. I’d ha’ liked to get 
it settled now as they’re both up-grown — but our Rutli 
’ull ha’ none of it. Hoo’s content as hoo is, hoo says, an’ 
hoo wunnot hear a word o’ company-keepin’ — not wi’ 
nobry.” 

“ You see. Bob, your daughter is not an ordinary girl. I 
must say I can understand her being unwilling to have any- 
thing to say to a lout like Luke.” 

‘‘ Coom, Mester Anthony, Luke’s none so ill. Theer’s 
a many lasses a-settin’ o’ their caps at him as ’ud be reet 
glad if he’d look their way. But he says ‘ Nay, I’ll bide 
till Ruth cooms round ’ — he mak’s sure as hoo will, soon or 
late. An’ arter all, he’s happen reet. Hoo’s bound to wed 
some one, an’ why not Luke as hoo knows sin’ they was 
both child-little? I fancy hoo’s nobbut getten some 
maggot in her head at th’ convent yonder.” 


56 


A DAUGHTER OF THE SOIL 


“What — do you think they want to make a nun of 
her?” 

“ Eh, dear o’ me ! no, sir. Hoo’s not that mak’ o’ wench. 
Nay, but hoo’s gotten — notions, ye know.” 

“Well, what else would you expect? ’’said Anthony 
warmly. “ You give her the education of a lady, and 
then you are quite astonished that she should be above the 
common run of girls. Why on earth didn’t you keep her 
at home, if you wanted her to be just an ordinary village 
lass ? ” 

“ Why, this is as how ’twere, Mester Anthony. When 
our missus were agate o’ deein’, hoo axed me to see as th’ 
lass were brought up a Roman Catholic, same as hersel’. 
Well, hoo were a good woman, an’ I thought as I couldn’t 
do better nor let our Ruth be o’ th’ same mak’ — an’ I’d 
promised her when we were wed as th’ childer should all 
be Catholics. So I saj^s ‘ Ay — as thou likes, owd lass — 
but now mun I do ? Neither me nor Barbara ’ud be mich 
hand at lamin’ her her catechism or that.’ ‘ Eh,’ says hoo, 
‘thou mun send her to school, to a convent school, an’ 
they’ll larn her theer.’ 

“Well, arter we’d buried our missus, and gotten Ruth’s 
blacks, I went to seek a convent school for th’ little lass. 
Hoo weren’t nobbut just eleven at th’ time. Well I yeard 

o’ this ’ere nun’s convent down in shire as ’twere th’ 

owdest an’ th’ best in England. So down I went to see it, 
an’ in coom a gradely little owd lady wi’ a white cap on 
her head, an’ a black shawl o’ th’ top, an’ a white pinner 
same as a child, an’ long black skirts trailin’ o’ th’ floor, an’ 
this were th’ abbeyess. Well, we geet a-talkin’,- an’ hoo 
towd me as theer were two sets o’ schools theer, one for 
ladies an’ one for poor folk. ‘ My lass is neitlier one nor 
t’other,’ says I, ‘ but I want her to get the best eddication 
as a lass can have. An’ mind ye bring her up a gradely 
Catholic though,’ I says. Well, Mester Anthony, that poor 
school was for orphans, ye know, an’ reet poor lasses, an’ 


EXPLANATIONS 


57 


they was to be sarvaiits, an’ lamed trades an’ that. ‘ Oh,’ 
says I, ‘ you’ll not do for me. My wench is beholden to 
no one,’ says I ‘ ye’d best book her for th’ t’other.’ ‘ But 
how am I to do that ? ’ says th’ abbeyess, ‘ it’s only for 
young ladies.’ ‘ How mich d’ye want fur a young lady ? ’ 
says I. Well, hoo tells me. ‘All reet,’ says I. ‘My lass 
is yoong enough, an’ bonny enough, an’ sharp enough ; yo’ 
can make a lady of her if you like. An’ as for th’ brass. 
I’ll pay it now if ye wish, an’ fetch her o’ Monday.’ Well, 
hoo got agate o’ talkin’ and objectin’, but I stuck to it as 
my lass had as good a reet to be theer as ony other, an’ 
arter a while I geet vexed. ‘ All reet,’ says I, ‘ theer’s 
a parson up our way as calls himsel’ English Catholic. I’ll 
get him to larn her her religion then,’ says I, ‘ for if these 
is your Roman ways I don’t howd wi’ ’em. One lass is as 
good as another, when all’s said an’ done, an’ happen one 
Catholic is as good as another ; so I’ll say good arternoon.’ 
Well th’ owd lady laughed a bit, an’ th’ job were done 
then. See, Mester Anthony, yon’s the Six-bits an’ Luke 
lookin’ out for me. I munnot take ye out o’ yer road. 
I’ll bid ye good-day, sir, an’ I hope you’ll look in again 
soon.” 

They shook hands and parted. Anthony had recovered 
from his transitory annoyance on hearing of Luke’s pre- 
tensions — they were too preposterous to be considered 
seriously — and now proceeded on his way with a rapid, 
springing step, his heart bounding within him, his face 
reflecting the sudden new sense of youth and joy and 
vigor which had taken possession of him. After all, life 
was not over at thirty-flve. It still contained much whole- 
some enjoyment, if he chose to avail himself of it. 

The episode of the morning, for instance, the peep at 
the simple life of these good country folk, how fresh and 
amusing and delightful an experience it had been ! The 
mere contemplation of that girl in her home — why, it soft- 
ened and uplifted a man. In spite of the contrast between 


58 


A DAUGHTER OF THE SOIL 


her and her surroundings it was in her home that one 
should see her. Her refined and educated speech, to be ap- 
preciated, should be heard amid the broad talk of her father 
and his associates ; then how pleasant were her occasional 
lapses into the north-country idiom ! “ Father likes me to 

do for him,’’ ‘‘ Eb, but we cannot let them clem.” Again, 
how well her beautiful figure was set off by the peasant- 
dress, how graceful and dignified were her movements as 
she went about her household work ! 

At one moment he had been tempted to think her posi- 
tion anomalous, but in the next he realized that it was the 
one of all others best suited to the girl. She was made for 
tliis life under the open sky, for comradeship with the birds 
and breezes, for the gathering up and the generous bestowal 
of the riches of her Mother Earth. Ay, her Mother Earth ! 
Not only had Ruth’s nature been fostered and moulded by 
all beneficent country influences, but it even seemed to 
Anthony that it partook in its very essence of the nature of 
the soil itself. Large and simple and kindly ; innocent in 
itself and purifying all with which it came in contact ; 
bountiful to lavishness. By-the-bye, what was it his aunt 
had called her ? “A daughter of the soil.” Mrs. Alford 
did not often hit on anything so appropriate, but this name 
certainly suited the girl to perfection. 

He came back through the village, which was now curi- 
ously still and placid ; the children were at school, the men 
afield, the women busy with their Saturday indoor clean- 
ing. It was a pretty village after all, thought Anthony — 
there was for him a certain glamour about all country 
things this morning — and the inhabitants were evidently 
thrifty and comfortable. How delicious that hay smelled ! 
It was a new stack, greener than the rest and thick with 
clover. And there were actually cabbage-roses in that 
cottage-garden ! How many years was it since he had 
seen or smelled a cabbage-rose ? He wondered if Ruth pos- 
sessed a garden, and if cabbage-roses grew there. Surely 


EXPLANATIONS 


59 


there was sweet-briar somewhere in the neighborhood — 
the perfume was strong in the air ! Really, Little Alford 
was a charming village — he scarcely knew when he had 
enjoyed a stroll so much. 

His aunt and Henry were at breakfast when he entered, 
Mrs. Alford being in the act of inveighing against the 
iniquities of certain Brahma hens. 

“ I keep them on purpose that they may supply me with 
eggs for breakfast. You know, Henry, I always like a big 
brown egg. Well, but the stupid things won’t lay. .They 
always want to sit, so idiotic of them ! As if there was 
any use in sitting when they won’t lay. Good-morning, 
Tony, you are rather late.” 

“ I have been for a walk. What a delightful village 
this is ! I had quite forgotten it was so quaint and pretty.” 

Mrs. Alford beamed. 

“ So glad you appreciate it, dear — of course I love it. 
But how energetic of you to go out before breakfast. You 
must be dreadfully hungry. Now, what will you have ? 
Will you begin with an egg — a nasty little stupid white 
leghorn egg — or will you be rasher and have a rasher? 
Ha, ha, ha ! did you hear what I said, Henry ? Henry never 
laughs at his mother’s jokes. What, neither? Kidneys 
then, or there’s a pie of some kind on the side table.” 

“ I’ll have some pie,” said Anthony, rising and helping 
himself to a very small portion ; he felt unaccountably re- 
luctant to announce that he had already breakfasted at the 
Warren Farm. They would think it odd — and Henry 
looked even more solemn than usual this morning. He 
never seemed to understand that a man was occasionally 
liable to whims. 

Clifton did not put forward any excuse for his small 
appetite and listened tranquilly to his aunt’s theories on 
the subject ; that good lady being much distressed, and 
occupying herself during the meal in endeavoring to ac- 
count for it. 


60 


A DAUGHTER OF THE SOIL 


When the cousins had adjourned to the study, however, 
and Anthony was in the middle of his first cigarette, he was 
somewhat disconcerted by the appearance of a footman, 
who came in, carrying his gun. 

“They have sent this up from the Warren Farm, sir. 
The lad who brought it said you laid it on one side when 
you were breakfasting, and they did not see it till after you 
had gone.” 

“Oh,” said Anthony, feeling in his waistcoat pocket; 
“ will you give the boy this shilling for his trouble, and say 
I am very much obliged.” 

He continued smoking with apparent equanimity, though 
inwardly he was much annoyed. Why had he been such a 
fool as to keep his morning expedition a secret ? Henry 
would think he had some special reason for doing so, and 
trump up a great story out of nothing. 

There was silence for a moment or two after the servant 
had left the room, and then the squire remarked, with an 
unpleasant laugh : 

“ Now I understand your loss of appetite ! ” 

“Yes,” returned Anthony, looking at him defiantly. “ I 
had already done veiy nicely at the Warren Farm. I 
walked round by the back of it this morning, and I met old 
Bob, and Bob invited me to breakfast, and I accepted, and 
I came back by the village, and admired it very much, as I 
told your mother. There — now you know all about it.” 

“You have not explained why you should have made a 
mystery of your visit to the farm — in order to conceal it 
you actually endeavored to eat a second breakfast. If it 
is all so simple, why could you not have mentioned it? ” 

“ Why ? Because you have got such a confounded long 
face, Henry — and because, if you can possibly manage it, 
you will make a mountain out of a molehill. I have told 
3"ou the truth, but of course you needn’t believe it if you 
don’t like.” 

“ I do not believe you,” said Henry, and then crossing 


EXPLANATIONS 


61 


the room, he laid his hand on his cousin’s shoulder: An- 
thon}^, for God’s sake, don’t tamper with that girl ! ” 

“ What do you take me for ? ” cried Clifton, shaking off 
the other’s hand and springing up. 

“ Slie is a good girl,” went on Henry vehemently, and 
so unsuspicious of evil, so intensely innocent-minded, that I 
fear for her on that very account. Remember what her 
education has been — for seven years shut up in a convent 
where no breath from the outer world could penetrate ; then 
returning to this quiet place. She is too much above the 
village folk to gossip with them, and consequently is not 
in the way of hearing even the little scandals of the neigh- 
borhood. She has the stature of a woman, but the heart 
of a child.” 

“ Well?” said Anthony. 

“ Well — why are you hanging about her ?” 

I give you my word that I admire and respect her more 
than I have in my life admired and respected a woman. I 
should think myself a scoundrel if I wronged her so much 
as in thought.” 

“And you would be a scoundrel ! ” said Henry warmly. 
His face was flushed and his voice shook, but he continued 
after a moment with an effort at calmness, “You must 
see for yourself that your admiration can do her no good. 
Leave her alone, Anthony — why should you bring a dis- 
turbing element into her placid life ? If she sees much of 
you she will begin to take an interest in you — to like you 
perhaps. You will put — ideas into her head — and then 
you will go away and leave her with the heartache.” 

Anthony’s face softened so much that the squire thought 
his arguments had touched him, and added in a gentler 
tone, “ Come, you are only here for a short time — you 
have not seen Ruth very often ; you are not likely to meet 
her unless you deliberate!}^ seek her out. It won’t cost you 
much to keep out of her way during the rest of your stay. 
Promise me that you will, Anthony.” 


62 


A DAUGHTER OF THE SOIL 


“ I will do nothing of the kind,” said Anthony curtly. 

‘‘Then I shall take the first opportunity of warning 
Sefton that you are not a fit person for his daughter to 
associate with.” 

Anthony turned as pale as his cousin was unwontedly 
red, but he looked determined. 

“If you choose to insult me, and Ruth too, by your 
insinuations, you can do so of course,” he observed after a 
pause. “ I dare say I can set myself right with Sefton — but 
on your head be it if strange notions are put into the girl’s 
mind.” 

Henry made no answer and Anthony smoked in silence 
for a moment or two ; then, suddenly looking up with a 
bright smile, and the frank, engaging manner which he 
could assume when he chose, he said : 

“ Henry, don’t be a fool ! You misjudge me — indeed you 
do. I am not such a bad fellow as you think.” 

“ You told me yourself you were a reprobate,” responded 
Alford gloomily. 

Anthony laughed ; 

“ I made the worst of myself that night.” 

“ Was not every thing you told me true, then ? ” 

“ One thing was not true. I said I had no beliefs. I 
have one — I believe in a good woman.” 

“ All the same I shall warn Sefton,” said Henry. 


CHAPTER VIII 


A COMPACT 

“I PEESUME,” said Henry on the following morning, 
contemplating Anthony as he lay outstretched in his 
favorite sunny corner of the terrace, ‘‘that you don’t 
intend to go to church this morning.” 

“ Wise Henry ! I don’t.” 

“ I. think you might put in an appearance for once — the 
first Sunday after your return — if only to please my 
mother. Poor old Pennington, too, will feel hurt if you 
stay away ; and what will the people think ? ” 

“ Let them think what they please. Whatever I am, I 
am not a hypocrite.” 

Henry turned and walked slowly away ; Mrs. Alford 
and most of the domestics had already betaken themselves 
to church, and presently the bell stopped ringing and an 
absolute Sabbath stillness reigned. 

Then Anthony rose and set off at a round pace in the 
direction of the Warren Farm. He had a well-grounded 
hope of finding Ruth alone at this hour, when her father 
and the domestics would most probably be at church. The 
service at the Catholic chapel had, he knew, taken place 
early. He had heard the little bell jangling faintly when 
he strolled toward it in the morning ; and he remembered 
of old seeing the congregation leave it about nine o’clock. 
The congregation was a small one and there was no resident 
priest, on^ from the neighboring country town officiating 
on Sundays. Ruth’s devotions, therefore, would have been 
concluded long ago. 

Here was the farm ; not a creature stirring, apparently. 


64 


A DAITGHTEE OF THE SOIL 


except the pigeons that circled round with a great flapping 
of wings as lie approached, and the dog, which drew near, 
lifting its lip ominously. 

Anthony snapped his fingers at it and whistled ; where- 
upon the bushy tail began to sweep backward and for- 
ward. The new-comer was neither a tramp nor the post- 
man ; he had even broken bread with the family, and was 
evidently not afraid ; therefore the collie decided that he 
might safely be permitted to pass. 

Clifton crossed the yard and tapped at the door — it was 
the back door, but he had not patience to go round the 
house to the principal entrance. He could hear steps 
within and Ruth’s voice singing softly as she moved 
about : 

‘‘ ‘ Oh, rest in the Lord, wait patiently for him, and he 
will give thee . . . thy heart’s desire . . . thy heart’s 
desire. And he will give thee thy heart’s desire ’ ” 

Anthony knocked again impatiently, and the girl, pres- 
ently opening the door, started at sight of his glowing, 
excited face. 

“ May I come in, Ruth ? ” 

“ Surely,” she said, looking at him in amazement ; then 
as he entered, and she noted his increasing agitation, she 
suddenly trembled and turned pale. 

‘‘ Oh, Mr. Anthony, you’re not come to tell me bad news ! 
There’s — there’s nothing wrong with my father?” 

‘‘ No — no. Do not be afraid. I have come to tell you 
something, but it is only about m^^self. It will not dis- 
tress jmu.” 

Ruth looked at him with more and more surprise ; but, 
after a moment, laughed a little. 

‘‘I can’t imagine what you want to tell me. But will 
you not come into the parlor, sir ? It is cooler.” 

He followed her into a good-sized room, which looked 
out on a large old-fashioned orchard. Through the open 
windows little gusts of summer air came in, warm and 


A COMPACT 


65 


flower-scented, but the room itself felt cool, and the grass 
without, beneath the gnarled old trees, lay in shadow. 
The room was a curious one, panelled in oak to a consider- 
able height from the ground, and the walls above tinted in 
distemper, a buff color. There was a little square of 
carpet in the middle of the place, and a table with books 
ranged at regular intervals round a large bowl filled with 
flowers ; the furniture was heavy and antiquated, a wide 
deep sofa almost filling one side of the room. In the large 
projecting fireplace ferns were prettily arranged, and on 
a bracket opposite the door stood a white statue of the 
Madonna. With the exception of two daguerrotypes of 
Ruth’s father and mother, there was not a picture on the 
walls. No wax flowers, no stuffed birds, no china figures, 
not even a woollen antimacassar ! It was not like a room 
in a farm-house. The remembrance flashed across Anthony 
as trivial things do even in crucial moments of one’s life. 
This was Ruth’s room, and, with her natural good taste, 
she had banished all such monstrosities on taking possession 
of it, and had made it something like a convent parlor ; 
though traces of a personality not altogether ascetic might 
be noted here and there. She now pointed to one of the 
cumbrous arm-chairs, and seated herself on the sofa, turn- 
ing so as to face Anthony. She was dressed in white to- 
day and looked very cool and fresh ; no more color than 
usual in her smooth cheek. She did not know what to 
make of this visit, of Anthony’s prolonged silence, of his 
agitation ; but was herself absolutely unperturbed — the 
embodiment of virginal dignity. Was it coldness, or sim- 
plicity ? He was about to find out. 

“ I will sit beside you, if I may,” he began abruptly. 
“ What I have to tell you is — difficult to say, and I have 
not the courage to face you while I say it. I — I want you 
to hear from my own lips something that my cousin, Henry 
Alford, is going to tell your father at the earliest oppor- 
tunity — to-day, probably. Do you want to know what he 
5 


66 


A DAUGHTER OF THE SOIL 


will say ? He will say, ‘ Sefton, I think I should warn you 
that my cousin, Anthony Clifton, is a bad and dangerous 
man. Do not encourage him to go to your house ; do not 
allow your daughter to speak to him.’ ” 

He broke off with a clumsy attempt at a laugh. Ruth, 
in spite of his implied request that she would avert her 
gaze, turned round to look at him ; there was color enough 
in her face now, and her large eyes were very wide open. 

“I’m quite sure the squire would never say such a 
thing ! ” she cried indignantly. “ My father wouldn’t be- 
lieve him, if he did.” 

“But — it is unfortunately true,” observed Anthony 
huskily. 

“ I am very sorry,” said Ruth, after a pause. 

“Yes, it is true,” he went on falteringly. “I am not fit 
to speak to you. Your father would do well to forbid me 
the house — and yet I feel that I am not altogether bad. 
I am capable of better things.” 

“ I don’t quite understand, Mr. Anthony. Even if you 
have been very wicked, as you say, surely, if you repent — 
your cousin will not be hard with you. I am sure my 
father would not think of being rude or unkind to you. 
And after all — why should he ? It is no business of his. 
If you are good enough to be at the Hall,” she added, 
“ you are good enough for our place.” 

Anthony could hardly repress a smile, though he had 
almost a desire to weep. 

“ Then, you will not refuse to see me and to speak to 
me ? ” 

“ Certainly not, sir — whenever you come our way.” 

“ But — if your father says you are not to ? ” 

“ Oh, of course if my father says,” began Ruth hesi- 
tatingly, “ if my father says ” She broke off with a 

puzzled look, continuing after a moment, “I don’t see why 
he should say any thing.” 

“ He might think it dangerous,” said Anthony, in a low 


A COMPACT 


67 


voice. ‘‘ He might be afraid of my falling in love with 
you, Ruth.” 

She drew away from him, flushing to her very temples ; 
even her little ears crimsoning. Her eyes had a startled 
look, but she spoke with dignified displeasure. 

‘‘ Mr. Anthony, you should not say these things to me. 
I do not understand such jokes. I think perhaps it is better 
for you not to come here any more.” 

She was not so simple after all ; or rather, with all her 
simplicity, she had the instincts of a woman. 

I am not joking,” said Anthony. “ I never was more 
serious in my life. I am only trying to make yon under- 
stand why your father might probably object to me. And 
now I want to tell you that in one way he would be right — 
I have fallen in love with you already. No — don’t get 
up, don’t go away ; hear me to the end. I love you, 
Ruth ! I love you as I never thought I could love any 
woman ! I want you to be my wife.” 

‘‘ I think you must be mad, sir,” said Ruth, “ or else 
trying to make fun of me. I — I — oh, do let me go away.” 

“ No, I must have my answer first. Ruth, how can I 
make you believe that I am deeply and solemnly in 
earnest ? I swear to you by every thing you hold sacred 
that I am in earnest. I love you passionately — I must 
have you ! I will give you time ; don’t be frightened,” 
he added, changing his vehement tone for one very gentle 
and tender. “You shall have time to get used to the 
idea. I don’t expect you to love me yet, I only want you 
to let me teach you to love me. And then — some day, 
when you choose and when you are ready, you shall be my 
sweet wife. Your own priest shall marry us. I will 
promise every thing you wish.” 

Ruth was trembling like a leaf ; no one had ever spoken 
to her like this before — she was frightened, disturbed, and 
yet moved to the depths of her being. She shrunk into 
the furthest corner of the sofa and averted her face : she 


68 


A DAUGHTER OF THE SOIL 


would have given worlds to run away, to burst into child- 
ish sobs, and yet durst not. The very passion of the man 
held her. At last she said, still with averted face, and 
shaking voice : 

‘‘ How can you — feel for me as you say ? You don’t 
know me ; you have only seen me a few times.” 

“ If I had seen you hundreds of times I could not love 
you more! ” cried Anthony. “Darling, one loves beauty 
and innocence and truth at once and forever. One sight 
of your face was enough for me — hut it is for your good- 
ness I want you most. Oh, Ruth, take me and save me ! 
You could make any thing you liked of me — you could 
teach me to be good and true. You know what I am — 
but with you I could be better. Will you not teach me ? 
will you not help me ? Look at me, my sweet Ruth, and 
say you will help me.” 

She turned round, breathing quickly and trembling still ; 
her big, soft, innocent eyes were dim. They looked at 
Anthony for one moment and then dropped — but Anthony 
had seen enough in that transient glance, and his heart 
leaped with triumph. 

“I do not ask you to love me yet,” he said very softly; 
“only to let me see you — let me be with you. In time I 
hope you will learn to love me. I know I am unworthy of 
you — and yet, because you are so good, I hope you will have 
pity on me. Oh, Ruth, I will be true to you, I will worship 
you ; my great love will wash away the past. Give me 
hope — tell me that you will try to love me ! ” 

“ I will try,” she whispered, and the tears rolled slowly 
down her cheeks. It was a strange, solemn, bewildering 
experience, and she gave her pledge in doubt and awe. 
And yet her heart went out to the man in pity and grati- 
tude and — something more. 

He stooped and kissed her hand, continuing to hold it 
without speaking ; and presently she stole a glance at him. 
His handsome face was softened, transfigured ; tenderness. 


A COMPACT 


69 


a kind of humility in the usually bold gray eyes. And he 
loved her so much that he wanted to make her — even her, 
Ruth Sefton — his wife ; he trusted in her absolutely, he 
believed she had the power to direct his life and win him 
back to God. Oh, he thought too highly of her — far too 
highly ! But still, if she could help him — it was very 
wonderful to be loved as this man loved her. 

“ I will go now,” said Anthony, ‘‘ and to-morrow I will 
come again. Be true to your promise, darling.” 

“ I will be true,” answered Ruth, and pressing her hand 
once more he left her. 

He hastened across the yard and away from the farm- 
precincts, never pausing until he found himself in the open 
fields. Then he stood still and looked round. Absolute 
solitude — universal sunshine and peace. And Ruth was 
his! Yet he cast himself on the ground with a groan. 

“ Ruth, Ruth ! Why am I not worthy of you ! ” 

He lay motionless for a while, hearing as if in a dream 
the bees humming, the larks singing over his head, distant 
chimes sounding faintly in the air. Presently he sat 
up ; his face was working ominously, and his eyes were 
wet. 

Oh, Ruth,” he said again, half aloud, “ how happy we 
might have been if I were worthy of you ! ” 

He had sat, staring before him for some little time, when 
a man climbed over the fence which he had cleared a little 
while before, and walked slowly across the field, starting 
back as Anthony rose from the ground. 

‘‘You, Anthony ! What are you doing here ? ” 

“ I have been sitting still for about half an hour. Where 
do you hail from ? ” 

“ I walked a little way with Sefton, and am now taking 
a short cut home.” 

“ Oh ! ” said Clifton. 

“ Yes,” pursued Henry, in an agitated tone. “ I have 
kept my word, Anthony, and warned him about you.” 


70 


A DAUGHTER OF THE SOIL 


“Have you?” 

“ Yes, and he quite agrees with me that his daughter 
must be kept out of your way.” 

“ That is a little awkward,” said Anthony, “for she has 
just promised to be my wife.” 

“ Anthony, what devil’s work is this ? ” 

“ I wouldn’t use bad language on a Sunday if I were 
you,” said Clifton flippantly, though he was desperately 
angry. The two men faced each other, Anthony still 
quivering with his recent excitement ; Henry indignant 
and surprised. 

“ What does it mean ? ” he asked. 

“ It means that you forced my hand, my dear fellow. 
You obliged me to take Ruth by surprise in a way I never 
intended. However, it’s all right. She belongs to me 
now ; so do your worst.” 

“ I am — surprised,” said Henry, walking on slowly. 
“ It’s a preposterous thing, and I wonder at Ruth consent- 
ing to it.” Then he paused and said bitterly and emphat- 
ically : “ It is like you ; it makes a flt end to your career 
to offer your miserable remnant of a life to such a girl 
as Ruth.” 

“ Henry, let my miserable life alone. Do you suppose I 

don’t know, I don’t feel Hang it all, you are mean 

and ungenerous to twit me ! I tried to keep away from 
her at first, because she is so good — and then I met her — 
and then — after all, the past is dead and buried ! Is a man 
never to have a chance ? ” 

He paused, choking with passion, continuing after a mo- 
ment. “I can’t give her up, and I won’t. You asked me just 
now what I was doing here. Well, I was lying face down- 
ward for the most part, groaning because I am what I am 
— and I was thinking — wondering if I could make a su- 
preme effort and go away and leave her. And I simply 
can’t, Henry. If I was to go to the other side of the world, 
she would draw me back. And then I sat up and thought 


A COMPACT 


11 


of her ; of a look I saw in her eyes just now, and I swore 
that I would never give her up. And I never will. She 
belongs to me, she loves me ! ” 

“She loves you!” repeated the squire. “Well, God 
forgive you, Anthony; and God deal with you as you deal 
with her ! ” 


CHAPTER IX 


LUKE EEMONSTRATES 

Luke, Barbara, and Maggie drove back from church in 
the shandiy, but it was some time before Mr. Sefton him- 
self appeared. 

“ Feyther’s walkin’ wi’ squire,” volunteered Barbara, 
pausing in the kitchen before she retired to doff her Sunday 
gear. 

“ With the squire ? ” repeated Ruth, coloring with sur- 
prise and uneasiness. Certainly Mr. Alford had lost no 
time : she was sorry — she would have liked to have spoken 
quietly to her father before his mind had been biassed 
against this new wonderful lover of hers. 

Ah, squire axed him to walk a bit o’ th’ road wi’ him. 
Well, how long has beef been down ? Whatever hast 
thou bin thinkin’ on ? Why, it wunnot be ready this hour 
an’ more ! Eh, Ruth ! I’ve niver knowed ’ee do sich a 
thing. Feyther ’ll be mad. He was sayin’ in church as he 
could ’earken to sermon better if it hadn’t ha’ bin so near 
dinner-time. Wliy, bless th’ lass ! whee’rts thou off to?” 

‘‘ I am going to meet father,” said Ruth hastily. “ Look 
after the beef, Maggie, and don’t let it burn.” 

She ran across the yard, and took the path through the 
field which was considered a short cut to the village proper, 
walking nearly a quarter of a mile before her father’s large 
person came in sight. He was alone and proceeding slowly, 
mopping his brow every now and then. 

“ Why, ’ere’s our Ruth,” he observed as he caught sight 
of her. “ Here’s our bonny Ruth, come to meet feyther. 
Eh, lass, I’m nearly dead ! ” 


72 


LUKE REMONSTRATES 


73 


Barbara said the squire was with you,” said Ruth, 
turning and walking beside him. 

“ Ah, he coom a bit o’ th’ road wi’ me. Eh, I’d as soon 
have rode this terrible hot day. I would, lass, I can tell 
’ee. I’m a’most melted away.” 

“ Sit down on the bank, father, and rest a little. Dinner 
won’t be ready just yet. I was rather late in putting the 
beef down to roast. Sit down and smoke a pipe — that will 
cool you.” 

“ Eh, I’m sorry dinner isn’t ready. Whatever made ’ee 
late wi’ th’ beef, eh ? I’ve had that bit o’ beef i’ my mind 
all through sermon. Well, if it’s not ready theer’s no good 
i’ my sweatin’ to get whoam. Ah, I mun smoke a pipe, 
mun I ? Well, I’ve no objections. Is yon bank dry, think’s 
thou ? E-e-h, it’s a weary way down to’t. Theer we are.” 

He lighted his pipe and smoked in silence for a moment 
or two ; then Ruth asked timidly : 

“Did the squire want to see you about any thing in 
particular ? ” 

“ Nay, nothin’ so very particklar as I call to mind, lass. 
Nay, nothin’ so partick-lar. He was say in’ — seems a funny 
thing, too — about yon cousin of his ” 

“ Mr. Anthony ?” said Ruth as he paused. 

“ Ah, him ! He were sayin’ as he warn’t too well satis- 
Jied wi’ him. Seems he’s been wild, thou knows, an’ foolish 
an’ that. I can bethink mysel’ now as we’ve yerd some 
queer tales of Mester Anthony. They’d slipped my mind 
again — but now that I bethink mysel’ ; ah, I mind ’yearin’ 
on him.” 

“ But that was long ago, father, wasn’t it ? ” asked the 
girl, plucking nervously at a tuft of grass. 

“I b’lieve so — but he isn’t mich good now, I doubt. 
Nobbit a wastril, poor gentleman. So squire seems to 
think.” 

Ruth’s heart burned with resentment against the squire ; 
but after a moment she enquired : 


74 


A DAUGHTER OF THE SOIL 


“ Why did he, Mr. Alford, tell you all this, father ? It 
seems a funny thing, some way.” 

“ Well, see thou, this is how ’tis. Squire says ‘ I feel,’ 
he says, ‘ you ought to know how things are ’ — he says. 
‘You havin’ a young daughter an’ that’ — it were very 
thoughtful of him, warn’t it ? — ‘It’s best to keep her out of 
his road,’ he says ; ‘ lasses is best wi’out knowin’ chaps o’ 
that mak’.’ ‘Well,’ says I, ‘I thank ’ee kindly, sir, I’m 
sure — an’ if Mester Anthony does coom our way. I’ll mak’ 
so bold as to ax him to step a bit furder on.’ ” 

Ruth had turned red and pale during her father’s char- 
acteristic rendering of his conversation with the squire ; 
and now was silent, wondering how she could best break to 
him her very different views. 

The farmer puffed contentedly at his pipe for a moment 
or two, resuming presently: 

“ I’ve nought agen Mester Anthony — nought any ways — 
but there’s a deal o’ sense in what squire says. Mester 
Anthony isn’t so very likely to be powlerin’ about our 
place — but still if he do — thou mun just say thou’rt busy, 
an’ shut door in’s face.” 

“ Oh, father, father, but I don’t want to shut the door 
in his face ! ” cried Ruth, bursting into sudden tears. 
“ It’s very hard and cruel to cast up the past at him — when 
he wants — he wants to be good now.” 

“ Hallo ! ” ejaculated Bob, gazing at her in astonishment. 
“ What’s all this to do ? My word, Ruth, lass ” 

“He was here to-day,” she interrupted vehemently, 
“and he told me himself that he had been a bad man — 
long ago, I am sure it was long ago — and he said he could 
do better, and he would do better if — if — I would help him.” 

“ If — whatever art thou talkin’ about ? What’s thou 
got to do wi’ yon, thou foolish wench ? I’ll larn him to 

better himsel’ wi’ thee. What did the d d rascal want 

wi’ cornin’ danderin’ about thee, when we was all i’ church 
yonder? ” 


LUKE REMONSTRATES 


75 


“ He wants — he asked me to be his wife, father. He 
says he loves me and would make me happy — and I — oh, 
please, dear father, don’t send him away.” 

She tried to throw her arms round his neck, but old 
Bob, turning very red in the face, and frowning fiercely, 
wriggled away from her and relieved his mind by a volley 
of fine round oaths. 

Ruth covered her face with her hands and wept ; and 
presently the farmer, having come to the end of his litany, 
began to soften toward her. Putting out his horny hand 
hesitatingly, he stroked her hair. 

“ There — wipe thy e’en, my wench, an’ think no more 

on’t. Yon lad’s been foolin’ thee. D him, an’s cheeky 

ways ! Eh, thou’rt but a childish lass not to see as he 
were playin’s tricks on thee. Doesn’t thee know as gentry 
doesn’t wed wi’ farmer folks — eh ? Whatever ’ud squire 
say, an’ Mrs. Alford an’ all ? An’ does tho’ think as I’d 
let my wench tak’ up wi’ a wild leet-livin’ ne’er-do-weel as 
his own cousin has not a good word for ? Nay, not if he 
was gentry twenty times over — so theer.” 

Ruth sat up and dried her eyes. “ He wasn’t joking, 
father. He was in deep and solemn earnest — he said so 
over and over again. He said he never thought he could 
love a woman as much as he loves me — and he thinks — he 
says, if I would marry him, I could save him, and make a 
new man of him. Of course I didn’t exactly promise to 
marry him ” 

“ Oh, thou didn’t — didn’t thou ? ” interrupted the farmer 
sarcastically. “Theer, now ! Well — that’s summat !” 

“ No ; but I don’t want to send him away, father. I 
donH, He asked me to take time to know him. He wants 
me to let him come and — court me, you know, father. 
And after all, if I don’t like him, when I have seen a little 
more of him, I can always tell him so. But I do want 
you to let him come.” 

“ Well,” ejaculated her father, after a short pause. “ So 


76 


A DAUGHTER OF THE SOIL 


that’s all I get by traipsing off arter convents for ’ee ! I 
s’pose they lamed ’ee they kind o’ things theer. Thou as 
wouldn’t so much as keep company wi’ poor Luke yonder, 
as we’ve known sin’ he were a little un. Nawe, thou 
didn’t want no company-keepin’ wi’ nobry — nobbut the 
first wastril as crooks ’is finger an’ says ‘ coom ’ to 
thee ! — I tell ’ee, if I’d ha’ known as th’ abbeyess ud 
larn thee to be that mak’ o’ wench, I’d ha’ sent ’ee to th’ 
Methodies.” 

Then Ruth cried again, and the sight of her tears filled 
her father with rage and grief. He tried the effect of 
threats and oaths and remonstrances in turn, and at last 
finding Ruth absolutely determined, wiped his eyes with 
his coat-cuff and told her to go her own gate. 

“ Let him coom then, sin’ thou’s set on’t — but mind I’ll 
not say he’s to wed thee till I’ve seen more on him. I 
mun feel more satisfied nor I am now.” 

‘‘ Yes, father, that’s quite right. I only think it’s fair to 
give him a chance since he’s so bent on it. And you see, 
father, if — if he is really anxious to reform, and you are 
satisfied, and — I find I can like him, would it not be a 
great thing, a wonderful thing, to think that we can save 
him ? You know, if we are hard and unjust, he might turn 
the other way and go to the bad altogether.” 

“ I wish t’ th’ Lord he liad gone th’ t’other gate afore he 
come moiderin’ us here. Eh, dear o’ me ! Well — will 
yon bit o’ beef be done yet, thinks thou ? Eh, Ruth, I 
wouldn’t niver ha’ thought it o’ thee. But coom, let’s be 
toddlin’.” 

Ruth was distressed and touched, but though a good 
girl, as good even as Anthony thought her, she would not 
have been a woman without a certain share of self-will. 
She had moreover a strong character, and had been used in 
her quiet way to rule every one at the Warren Farm ; even 
Barbara, though Barbara was not aware of it. Her father, 
above all, was accustomed to be swayed by her judgment. 


LUKE REMONSTRATES 


11 


and in this eminently personal matter she did not feel it 
imperative to submit to his. She was somewhat discon- 
certed, however, when, dinner having been disposed of. 
Farmer Sefton, who had somewhat recovered his equanimity 
after an ample portion of beef washed down by copious 
draughts of ale, remarked to Barbara and Luke that ‘‘ our 
Ruth ” had started company-keeping. 

‘‘ An’ ye’ll never guess th’ name of her chap,” he added. 
“ Who dun yo’ think ? Mester Anthony ! Our Ruth’s 
takin’ up wi’ gentry folk ! ” 

Well, of course Barbara had a good deal to say on the 
subject. She was at once elated and irritated. Ruth was 
good enough to be a squire’s lady — she was, for sure, and 
what else did gaffer expect after taking her out of her 
proper place and cracking her up with convents and that ? 
Barbara could have told him all along what would come 
on’t. Not but what she wouldn’t be proud to see the day 
— and of course it was a fine match, and Ruth ’ud soon be 
too grand to have word for any of her own folks. But 
she never thought it did no one no good to set them up 
above theirselves. Eh, well ! It was easy seen what was 
the meaning of Mester Anthony asking for a drink out of 
the dipper ! Dear, dear, Ruth was simple ! Eh, but 
when all was said and done, Barbara would as lief have 
had Luke there — she would, and so would feyther, but 
Ruth was always one as would take queer fancies. 

Luke, meanwhile, looked as black as a thunder-cloud, 
but did not express his opinion until he found himself alone 
with the farmer. 

‘‘ I tell thee what it is,” he growled then, “ I’ll ha’ com- 
pensation for this.” 

‘‘ Compensation ! ” echoed his master hazily. “ What 
art talkin’ about, lad ? ” 

“ Why, Ruth ! ” cried Luke. ‘‘ Here she is takkin’ up wi’ 
yon Mester Anthony arter me waitin’ for her all these 
years ! How’s that for a fair bargain ? ” 


78 


A DAUGHTER OP THE SOIL 


“Well,” grunted Sefton, “thou needn’t wait no longer 
now — seems so.” 

“ Some ’un ’ull ha’ to pay for’t though,” returned the 
other. “ Here am I hidin’ her time, an’ niver so much as 
courtin’ another lass, an’ makin’ sure as she’d coom round 
— an’ she goes an’ serves me this gate.” 

“ Hoo niver said as hoo’d wed thee as how ’tis,” observed 
the farmer, after inwardly digesting Luke’s remarks, “ an’ 
I dunnot see what thou’s got to grumble for. ‘ I’ll bide,’ 
says thou, but hoo niver said * Do ’ — so theer ! ” 

“ Well, but yo’ did, yo’rsel’. ‘ Keep a good ’eart, Luke,’ 
says you. ‘ Hoo’ll come round ; ’ weren’t that what ye said, 
time an’ again ? Ah ! ” 

“ Well, an’ so I did,” retorted Sefton, “ an’ so I thought 
— but hoo thought different — that’s wheer it is.” 

“I’ll ha’ compensation, though,” repeated Luke, “I will. 
Yo’ll see.” 

“ I’ll compensation thee ! ” cried the farmer, laying down 
his pipe and leaning forward in his chair. “ Thou great 
noddy ! What art thou talkin’ about compensation for ? 
Who’s fed ’ee and brought thee up, same as if thou was a 
lad o’ my own ? Ay, an’ paid thee wage as soon as thou 
could do gradely work ? Dunnot thou be a fool — I’ll com- 
pensate thee out o’ my house if thou dunnot keep a civil 
tongue i’ thy yead.” 

“ I’d as lief be out o’ th’ house as in it, if Ruth’s agate o’ 
company-keepin’ wi’ yon,” said Luke with a sniff, and then 
a sob. 

Bob Sefton took up his pipe and lit it afresh, laid it 
down again, and glanced at his adopted son. 

“ Have another sup of ale, lad,” he said persuasively. 

“ Kaw,” sobbed Luke. 

“ It ’ll do ’ee good,” insisted the farmer. “ Maggie ! ” 
raising his voice to a bellow. “ Fotch a pint ’ere ! — theer, 
lad ; sup it up, an’ give over breakin’ thy ’eart for a job as 
canna be mended.” 


LUKE REMONSTEATES 


79 


Maggie brought in the ale and Luke drank it, as it 
were under protest ; breathing very hard between the 
gulps, and shaking his head mournfully from time to 
time. 

Bob stared at him solemnly the while, and as soon as he 
thought him sufficiently restored to resume the argument, 
proceeded hesitatingly : 

“ Alter all, Luke — when all’s said an’ done, thou’rt a bit i’ 
the wrong thysel’, lad. Seems as if thou’d made too sure o’ 
th’ job all roads. Thou thought thou’d nought to do nob- 
but bide wi’ thy great mouth oppen, an’ th’ lass ’ud drop 
into ’t for sure, afore long. Why, thou gradely noddy ! 
did thou ever year of a lass as was courted that gate ? If 
thou’d bin half a mon,” pursued Bob, warming with his 
subject and hammering the table with his fist, “ thou’d ha’ 
made a shift to sharpen thysel’ up, an’ done a bit o’ th’ 
reet mak’ o’ courtin’. Eh, mon ! why didn’t thou buy a drop 
o’ hair-oil, an’ don thysel’ seemly an’ wear a posy i’ thy coat ? 
An’ thou met ha’ made our Ruth a present now an’ again — 
an’ towd her hoo were a bonny lass, an’ that.” 

“ I did say summat o’ th’ kind once, an’ she let on as she 
didn’t hear,” grumbled Luke ; “ an’ Barbara called me a 
mismannered hound, she did. What should I be givin’ 
her presents fur? You keep me short enough as it 
is, an’ she’s every thin^ a lass could wish for. Presents 
indeed ! ” 

He paused, rubbing his tow-like hair meditatively. 

“ Hair-oil ! ” he observed presently, as though that were 
a suggestion in which he was forced to recognize some 
sense. ‘‘Ah — I niver thought o’ that. I might ha’ 
bought a drop of it too if ’t’ad come to my mind. Hair- 
oil, ah ! I’m sorry as I didn’t think on’t.” 

“ Ah, thou met ha’ bethought thysel’ o’ summat o’ th’ 
kind, if thou’d a bit o’ sperrit. But it’s too late now as 
how ’tis.” 

The farmer filled his pipe afresh and heaved a deep sigh ; 


80 


A DAUGHTER OF THE SOIL 


then a comical idea seemed to strike him, his eyes began to 
twinkle and his shoulders to roll. 

So thou reckons to ha’ me up for britch o’ promise ! 
eh ? ” he chuckled. “ Ho, ho, ho ! Britch o’ promise ! ” 
Luke glowered at him for all reply, passing his hand 
again slowly over his locks : he was still thinking of the 
hair- oil. 


t 


CHAPTER X 


COUETING 

About four o’clock next day the new lover’s shadow 
fell across the threshold of the Warren Farm ; all the 
doors were open, and he felt somewhat taken aback on dis- 
covering that the whole family were at tea in the living- 
room. He had purposely chosen this hour for his visit, 
hoping to find Ruth alone and disengaged — and behold, 
not only was she in the act of dispensing tea to her father, 
Luke, and Barbara, but, judging from the sour and for- 
bidding glances cast in his direction, all three were in 
possession of his secret. He might have guessed that this 
would have been the consequence of Henry’s interview 
with Bob. Ruth rose at once, and Anthony’s momentary 
irritation vanished at sight of the lovely blush and smile 
which told their own tale of timid joy. What did he care 
for these country bumpkins after all ? Ruth, his Ruth, 
was glad to see him. 

‘‘ I am afraid I am disturbing every body,” he observed 
pleasantly as he entered. 

“ Disturbing us ? ’Umph ! Well, I won’t say but what 
you mostly do seem to leet on us when we’re at mate,” 
growled the farmer, without moving or smiling. 

“ I’m sure we’re all very glad to see you, sir, no matter 
when you come,” cried Ruth quickly : the blush of 
pleasure had deepened to an angry glow, and the usually 
soft eyes flashed. Anthony laughed inwardly. What ! 
his beautiful saint had a temper of her own, had she ? 
He loved her the more for it. 


6 


81 


82 


A DAUGHTER OF THE SOIL 


“Luke, fetch a chair for Mr. Clifton — Barbara, get 
another cup. Father, you’ll welcome Mr. Anthony, I 
know.” 

How she mastered them all ! They obeyed her every 
one, more or less willingly ; even old Bob struggling to 
force a smile, as he mendaciously informed Anthony that 
he was proud to see him. 

He sat down beside Ruth, feeling a good deal amused, if 
a little abashed ; and watched the girl in silence as she 
poured out his tea. 

Presently a sort of rumbling chuckle was heard, and 
looking round, Anthony saw Farmer Sefton’s mouth widen- 
ing and his eyes twinkling. Meeting Anthony’s gaze, the 
farmer winked. 

“ Dunnot yo’ think yo’ could happen fancy a drink out 
o’ th’ dipper, Mester Anthony ? Ruth ’ill fetch it ye in a 
minute, ho ! ho ! Cut away, lass, t’ th’ dairy. Thou’d like 
to fetch a drop o’ cream, wouldn’t thou ? Is th’ dipper 
handy, Barbara ? Now then, squire.” 

Anthony did not move, however, and merely remarked 
very demurely that he liked his tea just as well without 
cream. Ruth’s courage so far failed her that she did not 
offer to get any, though her father facetiously continued 
to press her to “nip round yonder ” and to “just see if 
Mester Anthony couldn’t do wi’ a taste,” until he ended by 
chuckling himself into a good humor. 

“ When all’s said an’ done, though,” he observed, becom- 
ing serious all at once, “ I dunnot know as I tak’ it so very 
kind o’ yo to coom puttin’ notions in my lass’s yead, Mester 
Anthony. What sense is there i’ wark o’ that mak’? 
Theer’s a deal o’ difference ’tween ye an’ her, an’ it’s no 
ways seemly for ye to be talkin’ o’ coompany-keepin’. 
Let her tak’ up wi’ a lad o’ her own degree, an’ yo’ can have 
yo’s pick o’ th’ ladies, Mester Anthony.” 

Luke, who had been listening attentively, heaved a deep 
sigh, and paused, a huge morsel clearly defined in his 


COURTING 


83 


cheek, to gaze at the new-comer and see what he thought 
of that. 

Ruth sat with her eyes cast down, growing red and pale 
alternately ; how could her father talk like that before 
every one ? What would Mr. Anthony think ! 

Anthony did not lose his self-possession, though there 
certainly was a good deal of unusualness in the situation. 
This was ‘‘ coortin’ ” with a vengeance. 

‘‘You see I don’t happen to fancy any lady but Ruth,” 
he* said quietly. “I want her — and nobody else. But 
we’ll talk over this matter afterward, shall we ? How are 
your crops doing — I thought your wheat looked well as I 
came along.” 

“ Ah, ye thowt a dale about myw heat. I’ll be bound ! 
Ye’re a cool un as iver was, Mester Anthony ” — growing 
angry again — “ a bit too cool for me. I canna tak’ it thot 
easy. Why, how’s a mon to sit an’ talk o’ this an’ thot an’ 
t’other to a felly as has nought in’s mind but to ’tice 
away ’s only child fro’ him ? Theer now ! Natur’ couldn’t 
stand it — an’ so I tell yo’.” 

“ Ah, see yo’, th’ gaffer’s i’ th’ reet on’t,” put in Barbara. 
“ ’Tisn’t in natur’, as he says, as he could be pleased at los- 
ing the wench. Fur it ’ll be losin’ her as how ’tis. Ye 
reckon to tak’ her off us — her feyther, as hasn’t niver had 
chick nor child, as th’ sayin’ goes, nobbut her — an’ me as 
has browt ’er up, I may say. An’ theer ye go an’ tak’ her 
off us — eh, hoo’ll be thot set-up hoo’ll niver so mich as look 
our way at arter yo’n wed her — an’ yo’ reckon to tak’ her 
away to they outlandish places ye’re so fond on, Mester 
Anthony. It isn’t to be expected as we con like that ! ” 

Clifton glanced at Ruth : she did not dare to raise her 
eyes, but her lips were quivering, and tears were evidently 
not far off. 

“ You must remember that Ruth has not yet made up lier 
mind,” he said gentlj^ “It is a little hard to discuss every 
thing while I am yet ‘on approval.’ But you may be 


84 


A DAUGHTER OF THE SOIL 


quite sure, if she does consent to be my wife, I shall not 
take her away from you, nor from England, if she does 
not wish it. She shall do just what she likes — with herself 
— and with me.” 

Ruth stole a swift glance of gratitude toward him, and 
then looked round the table with a kind of tremulous pride. 
They could see for themselves what manner of man her 
lover was now, surely. 

“ Very fine ! ” said Barbara incredulously. ‘‘ Ah, ye can 
talk gradely, Mester Anthony — but hoo isn’t yo’r wife yet, 
see yo’ ? ’T’ull be another story then, I reckon, an’ yo’ll 
soon alter yo’r note. Hoo’ll larn to be a fine madam afore 
aught’s long, an’ to look down on her feyther an’ her 
feyther’s folk — yo’ll not fancy her coomin’ ’ere mich, an’ 
you’ll not be for lettin’ us go t’ yo’r place. So theer ! I 
tell yo’.” 

“ Mr. Anthony knows — whatever happens — I could never 
give up my own people,” said the girl ; the brightness had 
gone out of her face suddenly, and she spoke in a low, con- 
strained voice. 

“ Yes, Ruth, I know it, and I should never wish you to 
do so. We’ll discuss all that presently, you and I. Of one 
thing you may be sure. There shall always be room under 
my roof, wherever it may be, for your father, if he likes to 
come and see us. And for Barbara too,” he added, half 
jestingly, “ if she will promise not to scold me and frighten 
me out of my wits.” 

Barbara and her master exchanged gratified glances, and 
the farmer observed that no one could say but what Mester 
Anthony spoke han’some. The expression of Ruth’s face 
rewarded Clifton for this somewhat rash promise. He was 
prepared to extend the invitation to the entire household 
of the Warren Farm ; any thing rather than hear that 
pained, doubtful tone in her voice or see her bright face 
clouded. But just then his eyes fell on Luke ; Luke, who 
was staring straight before him and slowly and noisily mas- 


COUETING 


85 


ticating. Anthony’s gravity almost deserted him ; Luke 
was clearly impossible. 

The meal being now over, Anthony invited Ruth to go 
out for a stroll with him ; and presently the two tall 
figures walked away together. 

“ They’re a bonny pair,” murmured Barbara, looking 
after them. “ It’s a match, gaffer, for sure, an’ a bonny 
match too — when all’s said an’ done.” 

‘‘ Ah, I reckon it ’ll not tak’ our Ruth so long to mak’ up 
her mind,” responded gaffer, with a sigh. “ Eh, but it’s a 
queer thing, Barbara — I cannot take to’t some way. I 
welly think I’m dreamin’ half th’ time.” 

Ruth too felt like one in a dream ; yesterday morning 
no one had been further from her thoughts than Anthony 
Clifton, and to-day — her mind and her heart were full of 
him ; she could scarcely conceive life possible without him. 
She was not given to analyzing her feelings, and even now 
would have been shocked and startled if any one had told 
her that she loved him. And j^et, whether because she 
was moved by the suddenness and violence of his attack, 
or whether she had already been unconsciously attracted 
by him, it is certain that Anthony had been right on the 
previous day in fancying he saw a dawning tenderness in 
her eyes. 

As for Anthony himself, he was ecstatically, deliriously 
happy. He was as much surprised perhaps as any one, at 
the turn events were taking. But a few days ago he 
would have denied any notion of contracting such an alli- 
ance : he had not been aware of the extent of his passion 
for the girl until his cousin had proposed that he should 
see her no more. In seeking a private interview with her 
he had at first been actuated merely by the desire to insure 
her sympathy in case she should learn his true character, 
and then, captivated by her simplicity and sweetness, he had 
resolved to secure her for himself. 

Well, she was his now, that beautiful, exquisite creature ; 


86 


A DAUGHTER OP THE SOIL 


he felt already sure of his prize. He loved her, loved her, 
loved her — such love as his carried every thing before it. 
He was unworthy of her — to his heart’s core he felt it — 
but he would never give her up. Let bygones be by- 
gones — he would be good to her, he would worship her, she 
should be the happiest of women. But he must proceed 
very carefully. He would keep himself and his ardor 
thoroughly under control. Ruth must not be frightened, 
no matter how much it cost him to hold aloof. 

During that first walk, therefore, they conversed rather as 
friends than lovers ; Anthony spared no pains to win the 
girl’s confidence and conquer her shyness, and gradually 
she took courage to talk freely. Glancing at him now and 
then, and emboldened by the kind and tender interest in 
his face, she grew more and more at her ease ; and soon 
Anthony, leading her on by skilful questions, learned all 
about her past life. He and she laughed together over the 
recital of certain episodes in her school-days ; but she was 
more closely drawn to him by his tacit sympathy when she 
spoke of the mother, so early lost, and so tenderly beloved. 

‘‘ Did you ever see her ? ” she asked diffidently, after a 
pause. 

Anthony shook his head. 

“She was so good,” said Ruth softly. “You cannot 
imagine how good she was.” 

“ She was like you, then,” said Anthony, with a smile. 

“ Oh, no — far, far better ! Mother was a saint. You 
never saw a cross look on her face. But I want to be like 
her. I try, as well as I can, to do what she did.” 

“ That is why you work so much harder than you need, 
I suppose.” 

“Well, you see, before she died, she told me to try and 
take her place. ‘You must look after father’ — those 
were her last words to me. So you see, Mr. Anthony, I 
could never be long away from him.” 

“Of course not. But,” skilfully changing the subject, 


COURTING 


87 


“ I wonder that your education did not make you unfit for 
your home life.” 

“ Oh, the nuns were very wise ! They used to encourage 
me to remember my real station, and were always pleased 
when I told them I wanted to be like my mother. Of 
course I could not help learning to speak differently, and 
picking up things from the other girls. And the nuns 
too ; they were most of them delicate, high-bred ladies, and 
under all their worn habits, and in spite of the convent dis- 
cipline, they had certain little ways — I can’t describe them 
— but no one could be rough or rude when they were by.” 

Presently the conversation drifted into otlier channels, 
and Anthony discovered another quality in Ruth which he 
had not looked for in her — being content with the charm 
and innocence which had originally won him — but which 
was none the less delightful to him : the girl had great 
natural quickness of intelligence. 

What joy awaited him in the future, he thought exult- 
ingly ; he could never tire of her society. He could teach 
her anything. He could enjoy her as a companion as well 
as cherish her as a wife. He was more deeply in love 
than he could have conceived possible when they parted ; 
arranging to meet again on the morrow. 

They said farewell at the farm-gate with a pressure of 
the hand, and a glance, trustful on the part of Ruth, ardent, 
in spite of himself, on Anthony’s part ; and went their 
several ways with beating hearts. 


CHAPTER XI 


MBS. ALFOED EXPEESSES HEE OPINION 

While Anthony still affected to consider himself on 
probation, though no one, including himself, had the 
smallest doubt as to what would be the issue of events, 
news that he was paying his addresses to Robert Sefton’s 
daughter flew like wild-fire round the neighborhood. 
Mr. Pennington was the first to break the tidings to Mrs. 
Alford, whose indignation and surprise were extreme. 
After the rector had departed, shaking his head and look- 
ing very solemn, she sent for her son, to whom she an- 
nounced Anthony’s proceedings in a tragic, not to say 
explosive, manner. 

Henry’s calmness annoyed and disappointed her. 

“ He told me himself some days ago,” he remarked. 
“ Is it a settled thing, then ? ” 

“ Henry, you are a perfect idiot ! How could such a 
thing possibly be settled ? You must tell Sefton you 
won’t hear of it for a moment — tell him you’ll turn him 
out of his farm if he does not mstantly put a stop to it. 
And really you must talk seriously to Anthony — you are 
the head of the family, after all ; he cannot be allowed 
to disgrace us ! ” 

My dear mother, if you think there is the slightest use 
in talking to Anthony — besides, he already knows what I 
think of the matter ; there is no use in saying any thing 
more.” 

mean to say a very great deal more, then, I can tell 
you ! It is too scandalous ! I must say you irritate me, 
Henry ; making believe to treat it as a trivial matter, and 


MRS. ALFORD EXPRESSES HER OPINION 


89 


nothing but what you expected. No one could have ex- 
pected such a complication at this. If Anthony liad picked 
up some low woman in India — a begum or an ayah, or a 
creature of that kind — I should not have been surprised. 
I always did say I was prepared for any folly on his part. 
Do you remember somebody asking me once if it were 
true that my nephew had become a Bashi-bazouk ? and I 
said that I hadn’t the faintest notion of what a Bashi- 
bazouk might be, but that if it was anything improper and 
undesirable for a young man, I had no doubt that Anthony 
was one.” 

Henry murmured something unintelligible, and his 
motlier proceeded, knitting violently the while : 

“I was not, however, prepared for any thing quite so bad 
as this. Ruth Sefton, one of our own village girls ! 
Don’t interrupt me, Henry ! I say nothing could be so bad 
as this. He comes back to disgrace us in our own home — 
he takes a girl from our very door ! Why, I shall be 
cousin-in-law or something else to old Bob Sefton ! He’ll 
consider himself one of the family. Henry ! ” — with a 
little scream of exasperation — “ why don’t you say some- 
thing ? Isn’t it awful ? ” 

“ I think it is a great mistake,” said Mr. Alford, in his 
quietly sententious way, “ and I am very sorry for the 
girl.” His mother rolled up her knitting, and sat upright 
in her chair, her usually placid face red with anger. 

‘‘ My dear Henry,” she observed, as soon as she could 
obtain sufficient mastery over herself to speak, “ will 
you have the kindness to go away? Otherwise I might 
say something rude. Go away and send Anthony to 
me.” 

Anthony came and submitted with very great good humor 
to be lectured and expostulated with. His aunt lost her 
temper at the very beginning of the interview, — indeed, 
it had been imperfectly regained at the close of the dis- 
cussion with Henry, — but Anthony remained quite unruffied 


90 


A DAUGHTER OF THE SOIL 


throughout. Even when Mrs. Alford’s wrath and grief 
found vent in tears he was not exasperated. 

He came a little nearer to her and patted her hand, smiling. 

‘‘ Come, Aunt Alice ; do not take it so much to heart. 
After all it does not concern any one but myself.” 

“ How can you talk like that,” interrupted Mrs. Alford, 
with an angry sob, “ when you know you are dragging the 
whole family into the dust ? Disgracing us all. We shall 
never dare show our faces in decent society again, Henry 
and I. You need not tly to shut your eyes to it, Anthony; 
you must feel what you are doing.” 

“ I know that, personally, I am setting the world at 
defiance, but I have so long defied the world it should not 
surprise you or any one else. I am quite prepared to be cut 
by your friends in future, if ever I meet them, which is not 
likely. I do not expect to come here often, and if I do I 
shall stay at my father-in-law’s.” 

‘‘ Anthony, you have not even the ordinary instincts of 
a gentleman ! Either that, or you are so blinded with per- 
versity and passion that you do not see how monstrous 
your behavior is. Do you wish to drive us away from this 
place altogether ? How would it be possible for me to 
remain here while my nephew is the guest of Bob Sefton, 
his father-in-law ? ” 

“ You must disown your nephew, that is all,” returned 
Clifton coolly. “ Every one knows I am a disgrace to the 
family, and this will of course be considered the culmi- 
nating point. You are wrong in calling me blind. I am 
taking this step with my eyes wide open, and am fully 
alive to the consequences. It is a step downward, accord- 
ing to your notions. I know what I myself feel it to be, but 
I cannot expect you to agree with me. I am sorry for 
your sake and Henry’s that I do happen to be so closely 
related to you ; but nevertheless I don’t feel myself called 
upon to sacrifice my whole future in order to avoid a shock 
to your pride.” 


MRS. ALFORD EXPRESSES HER OPINION 


91 


Mrs. Alford buried her face in her handkerchief, observ- 
ing presently in muffled tones that Anthony was a nasty, 
ungrateful boy, and was making a base return to her for all 
her former kindness. 

“ Was not I a mother to you when you were a child ? ” she 
asked, removing her handkerchief at last, displaying a 
tragic and tear-marbled face. “Didn’t I sit up night after 
night with you when you had the measles ? I wish I hadn’t, 
now,” she added lugubriously. “You make one quite 
wicked, Anthony; you make me almost wish you had — you 
had ” 

“ Turned up my little toes while I was young and inno- 
cent ? ” said Clifton, and then lie laughed. 

“ Seriously, my dear aunt,” he went on, composing his 
face, “I am very sorry this should be such a trouble to 
you, but still a man has but one life, and it is only natural 
he should endeavor to secure for himself the greatest good 
and happiness attainable while it lasts. Now, this for me 
is centred in Ruth, and therefore I mean to have Ruth at 
any cost.” 

“ Well, at least you should do as other men do who 
make low marriages,” interrupted his aunt fiercely. “ Go 
quite away, you and your horrid wife, and never show 
your faces in the neighborhood again. If you had any 
consideration, any common decency, you would.” 

“I cannot unfortunately promise to do that,” replied 
Anthony quietly. “ I must consider Ruth before any one 
else. She will naturally want to see her father from time 
to time ; and though personally I should prefer to keep 
away from Alford and its vicinity, if she wishes me to 
accompany her I shall do so. I will guarantee, however, to 
keep as much on Bob’s premises as possible, and my pres- 
ence will in no way interfere with you. You and Henry 
can comfortably ignore me.” 

There was a mixture of determination and mockery in 
his tone which Mrs. Alford found hard to bear. She sat 


92 


A DAUGHTER OP THE SOIL 


upright, tapping her feet on the floor, and presently relieved 
her mind by a little outburst of spite. 

“ One easy way out of the difliculty you have not thought 
of. Your aristocratic connections shall march, my dear 
Anthony. Henry shall give your prospective father-in-law 
notice to quit at once.” 

‘‘There is only one slight obstacle to that little plan of 
yours. Most of Sefton’s land is free-hold, and the dwell- 
ing-house is absolutely his. You can’t eject a man from 
his own property.” He stooped to pick up his aunt’s 
knitting, which had rolled on the floor ; as he raised his 
head their eyes met, and he smiled gayly. 

“ Come, don’t worry about it any more. It is an under- 
stood thing that my marriage will cut me off from you 
completely ; but meanwhile let us keep on friendly terms.” 

The familiar brightness of his tone, a certain sweet wil- 
fulness in his smile, were too much for the poor old lady, 
who was in her own way genuinely fond of him. 

“Oh, Anthony,” she said brokenly, “you were — you 
were such a nice little boy ! Why have you turned out so 
badly?” 

“ Why, indeed ? ” he returned, with sudden gravity, add- 
ing after a pause : “ and yet, if you only knew ! This, 
which troubles you so much, is the very best thing which 
could befall me. If I had married Ruth Sefton early in 
life, I should be a different man now.” 

Late in the afternoon Henry met him returning from the 
farm, and stopped him, looking searchingly into his face. 

“ Every thing is decided, evidently : I need not ask in 
which way.” 

“ No, I fancy it is pretty easily seen,” returned Clifton, 
with an agitated laugh. “ I — I — old chap, I feel so happy 
myself I wish it wasn’t such a blow to you all.” 

To his surprise Henry grasped his hand warmly. 

“I am glad you are happj^ — and I hope you will make 
Ruth happy too. This — is not of her seeking, you know ; 


MRS. ALFORD EXPRESSES HER OPINION 


93 


and so you should be doubly good to her. My mother and 
I don’t look on things in quite the same light,” he went on 
confusedly. “The girl is not to blame at all — she deserves 
to be happy. This is an extraordinary whim of yours, but 
she should not suffer for it.” 

Anthony looked at him in amazement, the color slowly 
mounting in his face, but said nothing, and presently 
Henry asked, walking on slowly beside him the while, 
“ When does the — ceremony take place ? ” 

“ As soon as possible, I hope. I shall see the priest as 
soon as I have finally arranged matters with Ruth.” 

“The priest?” repeated Alford, turning sharply round 
and flushing in his turn. 

“ Yes — do you not know Ruth is a Roman Catholic?” 

“ Yes, but I — under the circumstances Surely, 

Anthony, you do not seriously contemplate ” 

“I contemplate acting according to Ruth’s wishes in 
every respect. It has been understood all along between 
us that, if she becomes my wife, I agree to all conditions 
imposed by her Church.” 

“Then the — the children ?” stammered Henry, more and 
more taken aback. 

“ The children shall be brought up in their mother’s 
religion. As I happen to have no religion myself, the 
sacrifice is not so overwhelming as you appear to think.” 

“ Anthony, this is the most deplorable thing I ever heard 
of. You belong at least nominally to the Church of Eng- 
land ; there has never been a Roman Catholic in our family 

since the Reformation — and yet you propose Oh, it 

is dreadful, dreadful ! Ruth herself is a reasonable and 
conscientious girl — if you took her in the right way she 
could be brought to see ” 

“It is rather absurd to make a family matter of it, 
Henry : I practically cease to belong to the family. I 
have taken my own life into my own hands, and mean to 
make of it what I choose. Ruth’s faith is a beautiful 


94 


A DAUGHTEE OF THE SOIL 


thing — I would not shake it for the world. She shall 
bring up her children to be as like herself as possible. 
Excuse my candor, Henry, but you really are an idiot of 
the first water — suggesting that I, I should talk to Ruth 
‘in the right way’ about religion ! You certainly are no 
judge of the fitness of things. By-the-bye, as we happen to 
be discussing these delicate subjects, let me ask you some- 
thing. Have you altered your will yet ? ” 

Henry, startled and angry, returned that it was no busi- 
ness of Anthony’s whether he had or not. 

“ My dear fellow, I shouldn’t allude to it if it were not 
for certain remarks you let drop the first evening I came. 
All I want to say is that if you have ever had any foolish 
idea of making me your heir, you must give it up now. 
No, you sha’n’t put me off. This is really a serious matter. 
Understand once and for all, Henry, that I absolutely 
refuse to have any thing to say to this property. I refuse 
in my own name and in the name of those who may pos- 
sibly belong to me one day. I know what I am doing : 
Ruth trusts to me, my love is all she wants. Our lives 
concern ourselves alone ; we have nothing to do with any 
one but each other. For many reasons I insist on your 
looking into this matter at once, and if my name figures in 
your will strike it out — if there is any allusion to possible 
heirs of mine, cancel it. Do you understand ? ” 

He spoke earnestly, even vehemently ; so vehemently 
that Henry was surprised and for a moment nonplussed. 

“ You take it in ? ” asked Anthony. 

“Yes, I see your point of view.” 

“ And you agree ? ” 

“ I won’t bind myself,” cried Henry testily. “ It is my 
own affair, after all, and — who is to come after me if you 
don’t ? ” 

“ My dear fellow, excuse me ; it is my affair too. The 
thing is impossible — even I can see that, though your 
mother told me just now I had not the instincts of a 


MRS. ALFORD EXPRESSES HER OPINION 


95 


gentleman. You must see it. Come, you may as well 
promise and set my mind at rest. It would be easy 
enough in the future, remember, for me or mine to get out 
of this responsibility — but it will make me much happier 
if you will promise me not to urge it further. Why, there 
is Tom Alford-Cobham with a houseful of boj^s ; they are 
only cousins in the twentieth degree, I know, but still 
offshoots from this family. You might adopt one of his 
baker’s dozen, if you are hard up for an heir.” 

“Yes, I might certainly,” said Henry gloomily. 

“Well, whatever happens, you won’t leave it to me or 
mine ? ” 

“ I will think about it. You certainly have made your- 
self undesirable as a successor.” 

“Thanks, old chap ! I knew you’d have the sense to 
see it,” cried Anthony joyfully, walking on again, slowly 
followed by the squire, whose face wore an expression of 
puzzled melancholy. 


CHAPTER XII 


A CONTRACT AND A PURCHASE 

The time that intervened between Ruth’s definite accept- 
ance of Anthony and their wedding was short ; looking 
back on it afterward they said it had flown ; but it is 
doubtful whether a period of intense happiness is not as 
long in the actual passing as one of sorrow, and to Ruth 
the wonder and the glamour of it appeared to have no end. 
The long golden days, in every moment of which she 
seemed to taste afresh the joy and sw’eetness of life and 
love ; the nights, broken sometimes, so that she lay awake 
gazing with dewy eyes into the darkness, murmuring her 
beloved’s name, tenderly and prayerfully ; or calm and 
restful, bringing to her even through her slumbers the 
consciousness of an immense dominating good — all were 
alike blissful, marvellous, and new ; the few weeks of 
betrothal seemed to prolong themselves immeasurably. 

“I am perfectly happy now,” she said one day to 
Anthony, who was eloquently describing their future life 
to her. “ I don’t think I could ever be happier, even when 
we are married. You are so good — so good to me ! ” 

He did not answer, and she looked at him with transi- 
tory shyness — one of those rare moments of shyness which 
still came to her, and which Anthony thought the sweetest 
perhaps of all her moods. For as a rule she was quite at 
her ease with him ; responding to his love and owning her 
own with characteristic candor and simplicity ; too large 
of mind, too open of heart, to hide what it seemed to her 
right that he should know. 

Her surrender was complete, her love boundless ; per- 
tence, disguise of any kind, Avas impossible to her ; she 


A CONTRACT AND A PURCHASE 


97 


would not have known how to be coy. Ruth coy ! the 
very idea was incongruous. Yet with all her frankness and 
naive tenderness there was a dignity about Ruth, a maid- 
enly reticence as it were, the very bloom of virginal woman- 
hood, which Anthony revered in his inmost heart ; he 
would have died rather than break through that innocent 
reserve. She had no fear of him, and was troubled by no 
qualms as to the difference of rank between them — were 
they not all in all to each other ? He was about to give up 
for her sake kindred and position ; the fact did not dis- 
tress her, because he told her that she was worth a thousand 
such sacrifices, and in all humility and singleness of heart 
she believed him, and felt that she could never do enough 
to show her love. Her occasional fits of shyness came to 
her partly because she loved him so much, and partly be- 
cause it seemed to her such a wonderful thing that he 
should love her as he did, and because he was wise and 
clever, and great beyond compare, and she wanted to 
please him always. Now and then, when he was silent, 
she feared she had said a foolish thing ; and sometimes 
Anthony purposely refrained from speaking, that he might 
see the questioning look in her dark eyes, the color rush 
suddenly into the sweet face ; and then would come a 
timid query, explanations, reassurance — a whole lovers’ 
comedy. Henry had once said of Ruth that she was a 
woman with the heart of a child ; but there were times 
when Anthony asked himself if she were not rather a child 
with the heart of a woman. 

But the desire to tease her was not this time the motive 
of Clifton’s silence ; a deeper thought, a painful thought, 
was preoccupying him, and when presently her hand stole 
into his, and looking up he saw her face grave and wonder- 
ing, he sighed. 

“ My poor Ruth ! if you knew, you would not say I was 
good to you. You would think I was doing you a cruel 
injury.” 

7 


98 


A DAUGHTER OF THE SOIL 


An injury ! ” cried Ruth, and her fingers closed on his 
more tightly. “ Oh, Anthony ! How can you talk like 
that ? You who love me so — who are giving up every 
thing for me ! ” 

“ Dear child, if you knew what a wicked man I am, you 
would have nothing to say to me. Ruth, if I had the 
courage to tell you ! Even now I feel the only right and 
honorable thing for me to do would be to go away and 
leave you — leave you in your innocence.” 

“ Leave me to break my heart ! ” she interrupted indig- 
nantly. “ Anthony, I could not live without you now. 
Don’t — don’t tell me any thing. I would far rather not 
know, and if I did I would forgive — there is nothing I 
could not forgive you, dearest. Forget the past. Nothing, 
nothing can part us ! You have repented, and I will pray 
for you and help you to be better. You said I could help 
you, did you not? And God is so merciful — oh, if you 

only knew ” she broke off suddenly, adding half to 

herself, “ I have only one wish.” 

He looked at her enquiringly with eyes which had be- 
come suddenly dim. 

“Only one wish,” she repeated. “You know what 
Ruth, my namesake, said once of old : ‘Thy people shall 
be my people and thy God my God.’ Dear Anthony, you 
have already chosen to belong to my people — oh, if you 
would only say some day, ‘ Thy God shall be my God ’ ! ” 

He shook his head, smiling, though his eyes were still 
full of tears ; then he stooped and kissed her hand. 

“ I have forgotten all the texts I ever knew,” he said a 
little unsteadily. “ Is there not a verse somewhere which 
says ‘ Where is your God ? ’ But — I could kneel to you, 
Ruth ! My sweet Ruth, my mercy ! Do you know the 
meaning of your name, darling ? It is ‘ mercy ’ — a blessed 
omen for me. And so,” hurriedly and agitatedly, “ you 
are content to take me as I am. You, you yourself tell 
me to forget the past. You trust me.” 


A CONTRACT AND A PURCHASE 


99 


‘‘I trust you completely,” said Ruth, deeply moved. 
“Never let these things be mentioned between us again. 
Oh, Anthony,” a little piteously, “ can’t you see ? You are 
all the world to me. I — cannot bear to hear you speak of 
leaving me.” 

“ I never will again ! ” he cried. “ I could not leave you. 
I could never give you up. It was only a moment’s folly 
— remorse — I don’t know what — which seized me when 
you said I was good, and I thought — if you knew ! ” 

“ Hush ! ” said Ruth, and her hand crept softly upward 
till it rested on his lips. 

“ It is over now,” he whispered at last, drawing it down 
and holding it between his own. “ Our love is enough — 
it wipes away all scores, doesn’t it ? Your happiness is 
at stake as well as mine, so I need have no more scruples. 
Our lives are bound up in each other — and nothing on 
earth shall part us.” 

In the silence which succeeded the voice of a lark, 
springing up almost from their feet, rang out triumphantly ; 
and, raising their eyes, they followed the dark speck cir- 
cling higher and higher in the cloudless blue. In all her 
after life Ruth could never hear the song of a lark without 
recalling that day : the warm air spiced with a thousand 
aromatic scents, and yet not languorous, for there was a fit- 
ful breeze stirring ; a breeze that had swept over distant 
moors and shaken the tops of larches and pines nearer at 
hand, and now came laden with the fragrance of heather 
and the honey-and-butter perfume of sun-kissed gorse, and 
the gummy flavor of spiky green boughs to fan the brows 
of these lovers. There was a field of clover near the bank 
where they sat, and bees were humming over plumy tufts 
of meadow-sweet. Ruth, looking up and gazing into 
heights of blue, breathed a voiceless prayer of thanks- 
giving, of petition — it was a habit she had fallen into 
lately when she was peculiarly alive to her happiness — 
and then her eyes were drawn down, past the waving 


100 


A DAUGHTEE OF THE SOIL 


green boughs so exquisitely defined against the sk}^, until 
they met the gaze of Anthony. Long, long afterward the 
notes of a lark would bring back again this hour to her in 
all its richness and completeness, even though the bird 
shot up from a dreary stubble-field and dropped down his 
song from a cloudj’-, sullen sky. 

Farmer Sefton’s face was a study in itself at this time. 
‘‘ Nought,” as he frequently repeated to Barbara, “ could 
be fairer nor speak han’somer nor Mester Anthony; ” the 
provision, indeed, made for bis daughter in case of widow- 
hood made the honest man open his eyes with astonish- 
ment and gratification. It was very nice too of him to 
promise to “ give over gaddin’ about i’ furrin’ parts ” and 
to settle down with Ruth in his own home in Devonshire, 
which was being “ done up beautiful ” in her honor. But 
when all was said an’ done it was nobbut a queer thing, 
Mr. Sefton opined, an’ he couldn’t no way bring his mind 
to it. It did seem a pity as their Ruth couldn’t ha’ settled 
to wed in her own degree. Ah, he towd that to squire 
hissen. He out wi’ it plain to him — an’ squire shook’s head 
an’ sighed. ‘‘We mun hope it ’ll turn out better nor we 
think,” says squire. But theer ! lasses was bad to manage, 
an’ Ruth wouldn’t be said by no one. 

And so Bob’s face changed its expression many times a 
day, and was by turns elate and doleful in the course even 
of an hour, and there remained a kind of background 
through these varying phases which was perpetually 
puzzled. 

As the eventful day drew near, however, and Ruth was 
busy with her simple preparations, it occurred to Mr. Sefton 
that it was “ nobbet reet ” that he should appear in becom- 
ing splendor to give her away. Business, as it fortunately 
chanced, led him to the neighboring large town shortly 
after this resolution, and having duly sampled corn, and 
ordered a supply of “ muck ” for the coming autumn, he 
betook himself to the shop of a certain large clothier, 


A CONTRACT AND A PURCHASE 


101 


advertisements of whose ‘‘ tailoring ” had found their way- 
even to walls and posts in the neighborhood of Alford. On 
such an occasion as the prospective one he felt he could not 
trust to the village tailor. 

But when he found himself inside the huge mart thronged 
with customers of the loud-voiced, haggling kind, the kind 
that “ price ” and finger an indefinite number of articles 
before deciding on one — honest Bob became a prey to 
overwhelming shyness. Once that massive, heavily booted 
foot of his was no longer set upon its native furrow, he 
became a different man. And when a pert and perspiring 
shop-assistant enquired if he were being attended to, he 
gaped and rolled his shoulders for a moment or two before 
summoning sufficient assurance to reply. 

“ Now then, hurry up,” cried the youth impudently, “ or 
else stand out o’ the road, will you ? ” 

‘‘ Now then, hurry up, yo’rsel’ ! ” returned Bob, simul- 
taneously finding his voice and losing his temper. “ I’ll 
not ston’ out o’ no roads till I’ve gotten what I’ve coom 
for. Now then, I want a suit o’ cloo’es. Have you summat 
as ’ll about fit my figure ? ” 

The man scanned the herculean proportions of the farmer 
in dismay, and shook his head. 

“ Not just ready-made, I don’t think, sir,” he said civilly, 
“ but we’d run them up for you in no time. Our specialty 
is gentlemen’s clothes, you know. Any make, newest 
style, best cut — every thing, sir, from knock-about suits to 
dress-clothes.” 

‘‘ Dress-cloo’es,” echoed Bob, rising to the occasion. 
“ Ah, that’s my ticket ! I want summat gradely, summat 
o’ the best.” 

“ Oh, indeed ! ” said the assistant, bewildered but also 
impressed. “ Well, sir, we can do it for jou, in a better 
style and at a more reasonable rate than any other firm in 
England.” 

“ Reet, thot’s fair enough ; the reasonabler the better, 


102 


A DAUGHTEE OF THE SOIL 


but still I’m for havin’ th’ best, ye know. It’s for a special 
’casion. Now then, aren’t ye for measurin’ ihe ? ” 

“ Certainly, sir, step this way. Tomkins ! ” 

Big, beaming Bob, picking his way unwieldily through 
the crowded ware-rooms, was conducted into a dark, evil- 
smelling little private room, and presently measured for 
a swallow-tail coat with a waistcoat and trousers to corre- 
spond, chuckling in his inmost soul at the thought of the 
fashionable appearance he would present at his daughter’s 
wedding. He had no idea that such garments were gener- 
ally reserved for evening wear ; the term “ dress-clothes ” 
conveying to him merely a notion of superior smartness 
and gentility. On his way out, a sudden notion struck 
him ; and critically examining his wide-awake, which he 
carried in his hand, and which bore traces of unmistakable 
wear and tear, he intimated his wish to buy a hat “to match.” 

The enterprising shopman accordingly supplied him 
with a “ Gibus expatiating loudly on the ingeniousness 
and convenience of that particular make. Bob’s astonish- 
ment and admiration knew no bounds. 

“ Eh ! ” he ejaculated, “ I niver see sich a thing in all my 
days ! Eh^ it’s — it’s reg’lar knowin’. Well, truly, it’s 
a wonderful thing what contrivances people do think on. 
Eh, it’s real diver — it is, for sure.” 

He occupied himself during some five minutes in shutting 
up the hat, and making it spring into shape again ; chuck- 
ling more and more loudly at each repetition. 

“Well, well, well, to think on’t ! Eh, my word, our 
Barbara ’ll ha’ summat to say when hoo sees it. Ah, yo’ 
mun put me up thot chap, mester. Ha, ha, ha ! How 
mich dun yo’ mak’ th’ lot ? ” 

He fished up a small canvas bag from his capacious 
pocket, paid there and then in good hard cash, put on his 
wide-awake a little sideways as became the fortunate pos- 
sessor of so “ knowing ” a contrivance as his recent pur- 
chase, and finally went on his way, chuckling still. 


CHAPTER XIII 


“married an’ a’” 

The wedding morning dawned fair and cloudless ; 
shimmering with heat as the day advanced. But Ruth 
walked alone to the little chapel before the dew dried 
upon the grass or the morning haze vanished. When she 
returned she found all bustle and confusion at the farm, 
and Barbara in her glory, turning every thing upside 
down, and making ten times more noise than was needful. 
Ruth herself was very calm and happy, though, when her 
eyes rested on her father, a transient sadness clouded them. 
To her relief, however. Bob did not appear to be as much 
overcome as she had expected : indeed, from the jokes he 
cracked, and certain spasmodic but jubilant winks and 
grins in which he indulged, his inward condition was evi- 
dently cheerful. He was in fact sustained by the remem- 
brance of the dress-clothes carefully stowed away upstairs, 
and the anticipation of the joy and surprise which the 
sight of them would presently cause Ruth and Barbara. 
He winked to himself as he thought how “ dark ” he had 
kept his secret, and chuckled as he pictured their delight. 
As to the crush-hat — what would they say to that^ eh? 
Ho, ho ! Why, they’d niver heerd tell o’ sich a thing. 

Barbara was the first to complete her toilet, and came 
down stairs clad all in rustling silk ; her Paisley shawl 
neatly folded over her arm to be assumed at the last 
moment — it was a broiling day, but Barbara would have 
died rather than go out of doors “ in her shape.” The 
strings of her bonnet, a towering erection which for some 
inscrutable reason she called a “ Pompadour,” were pinned 

103 


104 


A DAUGHTER OF THE SOIL 


back ‘‘out of the road,” and her handkerchief, folded 
square, and smelling of lavender, lay with a pair of violet 
merino gloves ready on the table. 

Ruth was the next to appear, her dress and little bonnet 
very unpretentious in make and material, but at Anthony’s 
request, white ; and, finally, her father came slowly down 
stairs, pausing on the lowest step to enjoy the sensation 
caused by his attire. The shiny black trousers were per- 
haps braced rather high for elegance ; the low-cut waist- 
coat displayed a shirt, snow-white, indeed, having been 
washed and “got up,” by Barbara, but for that very 
reason scarcely as stiff as custom requires, and bulging 
oddly in consequence ; the swallow-tail coat very tight in 
the back and short in the waist. 

“What dun yo’ say to this, eh?” quoth Bob, looking 
from one to the other ; his eyes nearly starting out of his 
head with pride and glee, his face scarlet, one arm out- 
stretched almost as stiffly as the arm of a sign-post, the 
other tightly clasping his crush-hat. 

“ Well, I niver ! ” ejaculated Barbara, clapping her hands 
together. “ Whativer han yo’ gotten on, gaffer ? ” 

“Father, you are grand ! ” cried Ruth. “ What beauti- 
ful clothes, and what a new shape ! I never saw any 
thing like these before — I suppose it is the newest 
fashion.” 

“Thou may say thot, lass,” replied Farmer Sefton, 
descending the step and advancing into the room, where 
he turned round slowly, the better to enable his women 
folk to inspect him. “ Same as what gentry weers, th’ 
tailor-chap, yon, towd me. Well, Barbara, an’ what does 
thou say ? ” 

Barbara walked round him, her hands on her hips, her 
head a little bent to one side. 

“ Of all the funnjMookin’ suits as iver I saw,” she began, 
“ it’s the queerest. I ’ope it wunnot be th’ death o’ yo’, wi’ 
that theer skimpy little weskit. ’Twas a town-tailor made 


MARRIED an’ a’ ” 


105 


’em, was it? Well, I will say as poor Tommy Binks 
wouldn’t for shame’s sake be so sparin’ o’ th’ cloth. Look 
’ere at th’ coat ! It hasn’t got no sides to’t — nobbut a 
jacket wi’ tails tacked on. I wish t’ th’ Lord yo’d ha’ 
gi’en poor Tommy th’ job ! He’d ha’ shapped ye summat 
more seemly.” 

“ Seemly ! ” echoed Bob, much nettled. “ Tut, lass, 
thou doesna know. ’Tis th’ fashion, I tell ’ee — same as 
gradely gentry has. Thou’s niver seen nought nor yeerd 
nought. They’re reg’lar dress-cloo’es same as squire an’ 
Mester Anthony an’ all has laid by for best. Sitho, Ruth, 
it’s lined wi’ satin ! ” 

He held out the flap of the coat, smiling with renewed 
good humor and satisfaction. Ruth stroked it softly, utter- 
ing expressions of admiration and approval the while. 

“ Well, I’ll not say but what they suit ye,” observed Bar- 
bara presently. “ But eh ! They mun ha’ cost summat— 
a sight o’ money I’ll reckon. Didn’t they, now ? ” 

“ Ah, they did,” agreed Bob. “ A goodish bit — but our 
Ruth’s bin alius a good lass to me — an’ I dunnot grudge it 
to her. Theer ! I felt it nobbut reet when all was said 
an’ done. Well — while we’re agate o’ talkin’ o’ fashions, 
what dun ye think o’ thot ?” 

He suddenly produced the Gibus in its flattened condi- 
tion, thrusting it forward on his outstretched palms. 

“ Goodness save us ! — well, whatever has th’ mon getten 
howd on, now ? ” cried Barbara. 

‘‘ It’s an ’at,” responded the farmer gravely, though he 
was purple in the face with suppressed mirth. “ A dress 
’at to match they cloo’es.” 

“ My patience ! ” growled the old woman. ‘‘ Yo’n takken 
leave o’ yo’r senses, gaffer. Yon ’ll niver stick a’ top o’ 
thot turmit yead o’ yo’rs.” 

“ I can’t see how it will stay on,” put in Ruth, a little 
ahxiouslj^. 

“ Yigh, it ’ll stick on reet enough,” answered Bob. “ I’ll 


106 


A DAUGHTER OF THE SOIL 


nobbut ha’ t’ howd up my yead an’ look neither to reet nor 
left.” 

He balanced it insecurely on the top of his immense 
bald pate, winked, tipped it off, caught it as it fell, and 
then, with a roar of laughter, shot it into shape. 

“ How’s thot for an’ ’at, eh ? What dun yo mak’ o’ thot ? 
Ho, ho, ho ! how th’ owd wench stares. Well, Ruth, did 
thou ever see aught so clever ? See — now it’s shut, ready 
to carry under my arm, or to put under th’ seat i’ church 
an’ thot. An’ — now we’n gotten it ready for my turmit 
yead as Barbara calls it. Eh, my word ! it cost a deal o’ 
brass, that ’at did, but thou’rt my only child when all’s said 
an’ done. I dunnot think it too much for ’ee.” 

The sight of the jolly, rubicund face beaming with satis- 
faction, the thought of the honor he was doing her, were 
almost too much for Ruth ; she caught him round the neck 
and kissed him, sobbing. 

Presently the cab came which was to convey them to 
church : the party consisted only of Ruth, her father, and 
Barbara. Luke had announced that he wasn’t going to 
none o’ their wed din’s, and had gloomily betaken himself 
to the hay-field hours before, and no one else was invited — 
by the mutual desire of bride and bridegroom. This 
arrangement gave rise, however, to much indignation on 
Barbara’s part, and caused a good deal of secret disappoint- 
ment to Farmer Sefton, who would have liked the neigh- 
bors to see him in his new clothes. 

Anthony had walked quietly from Alford, and found 
himself at the church first. He was surprised, and not 
altogether pleased, when, as he was standing in the little 
porch waiting for Ruth to arrive, the priest who was to 
marry them sent a message to ask him to step for a moment 
into the sacristy. This old man had known Ruth from 
her childhood, and had been much distressed and astonished 
on hearing of her intended alliance. Indeed he had done 
his best to oppose it, but the girl, though moved by his 


MARRIED an’ a’ ” 


107 


disapprobation, did not suffer her resolution to be shaken 
by it, and Anthony himself had been so prompt in acquies- 
cing in all the prescribed conditions, so earnest in his desire 
to fall in, as far as was possible to him, with Ruth’s wishes 
that the priest could not withhold his consent. 

All formalities having been accomplished Clifton did 
not quite see why he was sent for now, and appeared in 
the sacristy with rather a clouded brow. 

“ I only just want to say one word to you, Mr. Clifton,” 
said the priest earnestly. “ Only one word. I take such 
an interest in Ruth — she is a good girl, an innocent, high- 
minded girl, a treasure indeed. I want you to realize it.” 

“ Surely no one can realize it as I do,” returned Anthony, 
raising his eyebrows. 

“Well, but listen a moment. You are taking a solemn 
step this morning ; binding yourselves together before 
God all your lives. I’d like you to think about it a min- 
ute or two — it’s a solemn thing — a very solemn thing. 
Just step into the church, now, and ask the Almighty, in 
whom we all believe whatever our creed, to bless you and 
help you to be a good husband. I want the pair of you,” 
he added quaintly, “ to be blessed in your union, and to 
approach it in a proper spirit. There is Ruth, poor girl, 
praying and preparing herself with all her might for 
receiving the sacrament worthily. You know with us 
matrimony is a sacrament, Mr. Clifton — it is not so, I 
believe, in your Church.” 

“ I belong to no Church,” responded Anthony quietly. 
“ Our mutual love is the only sacrament I acknowledge — 
the only thing by which I am bound ; and it is stronger than 
all your ceremonies. Have your ceremonies by all means, 
though, and your sacraments too — any thing that Ruth 
considers necessary and that sets her heart at rest ; for 
me, personally, I should be quite content to do without 
any ceremony at all.” 

The priest bowed and moved away, too much shocked 


108 


A DAUGHTER OF THE SOIL 


to prolong the conversation. Good Heavens ! into what 
hands was his innocent Ruth falling ? 

“ For me,” continued Anthony, turning at the door, 
“ Ruth herself is enough. I believe and hope in and love 
her — there is my creed. Do not be afraid of my not real- 
izing how good she is.” 

“ The man is a pagan ! ” murmured the other. “ Poor 
Ruth, poor child ! What a difficult life is before her — so 
young, too ! It seems only the other day that I prepared 
her for her first communion ! ” 

The sound of wheels without announced the approach of 
the wedding party ; and in a few minutes Anthony and 
his bride stood before the altar. He had no eyes for any 
one but Ruth ; how lovely she looked, sweet, and pale, and 

pure ! “I, Anthony, take thee, Ruth, to my wedded 

wife, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better 
for worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health, 
till death do us part.” 

Beautiful, solemn words ! it was an impressive ceremony 
after all. He could almost have retracted his hasty speech 
of a little while ago. Even to him, personally, there was 
a sacredness and charm about the rite which was binding 
Ruth to him forever ; the clasping of hands, there, before 
the altar at which she worshipped ; the vowing eternal 
fidelity in set old-time phrases — there was a certain pomp 
and stateliness about it all which seemed to him only right 
and becoming where there was a question of union with 
such a girl as Ruth. 

Barbara stood a little behind, like an antiquated brides- 
maid ; she would not have knelt for worlds in this den of 
Popery. Moreover, as a kind of protection against pos- 
sible snares she had brought her Bible with her, and now 
held it well in view, her thumbs in their merino coverings 
planted side by side on its worn binding. 

As for poor Bob he looked rueful enough ; the place and 
ceremony reminded him of his dead wife. He also had 


109 


“ MAERIED an’ a’ ” 

been married in a Catholic church, and the last time he had 
entered one had been at her funeral ; now he was going to 
lose his “ wench,” and to be indeed alone in the world. 
Had the bridal pair been less absorbed in each other, they 
would have been startled by a portentous “ click ” which 
presently resounded through the little edifice, making the 
heretofore rigid Barbara turn her head. It was “ the 
gaffer’s ” new hat, the spring of which he had pressed, 
and in the friendly depths of which he now sought to hide 
his face and his emotion. 

Well, all was over at last, and the newly wedded pair set 
out to walk back to the farm across the fields ; this arrange- 
ment had been manoeuvred by Anthony, who alleged that 
the air would restore the color to Ruth’s pale cheeks, and 
who, indeed, bundled the farmer and Barbara into the fly, 
and desired the driver to go on, almost before any one had 
time to realize what he was about. 

Well,” grunted Sefton, recovering his wits presently, 
‘‘ did ’ee iver hear th’ like o’ thot ? Pretty cool, I call it. 
Thee an’ me’s the bride an’ groom, I s’pose, settin’ ’ere by 
we’resel’s. He met ha’ let the wench ride — we’s not have 
her so long.” 

Meanwhile Anthony and Ruth, forgetful of every one in 
the world but each other, were walking along a little green 
path that skirted a cornfield. The golden wheat now 
bending under its weight of grain was the same which he 
remembered faintly tinged with yellow on the day he had 
followed Ruth across the fields to the chapel they had just 
left. What a little time it was since they had first met, 
and now they were united forever ! 

As they crossed the stile at the end of the field they 
came face to face with no less a person than Henry Alford ; 
and paused in surprise. 

I thought I bade you an everlasting farewell after 
breakfast this morning,” cried Anthony, laughing. 

“ Yes, but — I fancied you would in all probability walk 


110 


A DAUGHTER OF THE SOIL 


back from the church, and I came this way on the 
chance. I wanted to see you, Ruth, and — wish you every 
happiness.” 

“Thank you,” said Ruth, smiling and taking his 
extended hand. There was color enough in her face, now, 
and looking at her with his rather weary eyes Henry 
thought he had never seen such an incarnation of youth 
and joy. 

After a moment he drew a little case from his pocket 
and held it out to her. It contained a beautiful diamond 
ring. 

“ For me ? ” she asked. “ Oh, how good of you — how 
kind to think of me ! ” 

“ Let us see if it fits,” said Henry, taking it from the 
case and trying it on one after the other of the girl’s fingers. 

It proved too small for any but that already encircled by 
the wedding-ring ; and Anthony smiled as he saw how 
quickly she drew the glittering trinket off again and 
restored it to its case. 

“ It is a beautiful present,” she said, shutting it up 
hastily. “ I am very grateful to you, Mr. Alford.” 

“ Good-by,” said Henry, standing aside to let them pass. 

“ Good-by,” echoed Anthony. “ I wish you were as 
happy as I am. How about the folly ? ” he added in a 
lower tone as he brushed past. 

But Henry only smiled. 

“ She will not wear it,” he muttered to himself as he 
watched the receding figures. 

Anthony was laughingly commenting on his cousin’s gen- 
erosity to Ruth, who answered that it was certainly very 
nice of him to have given her such a pretty little thing. 

“ A pretty little thing ! ” repeated Clifton. “ I wonder 
if you have any idea of the value of that little thing, Ruth. 
Let us see. Guess.” 

“ Diamonds I know are costly,” said Ruth, considering, 
“ and these are big ones. This ring may be ” — making a 


MAREIED an’ a’ ” 


111 


great effort of imagination — ‘‘perhaps almost worth five 
pounds.” 

“ Five pounds ! you blessed baby ! ” ejaculated Anthony. 
“ Fifty would be nearer the mark.” 

“ Please carry it for me, then,” cried Ruth, drawing it 
from her pocket. “ I might lose it — I don’t like having to 
take care of any thing so valuable.” 

“ But you must wear it ; then it will take care of itself.” 

“ I don’t want to wear any ring but yours — certainly not 
on that finger.” 

She spoke with an assumed air of wilfulness, which 
delighted Anthony ; but when, on turning a corner, they 
came in sight of the farm her mood changed. 

The old red house looked cosey, placid, and homelike as 
ever, with the smoke curling lazily upward ; the pigeons 
were walking up and down the roof, birds flitting from 
tree to tree in the orchard where a brave show of ruddy 
and yellow fruit adorned the boughs ; the hens were cluck- 
ing and scratching beneath the yellow corn-stacks. How 
strange that some one else would feed them this evening ; 
all the dumb things would be looking for her, but she 
would be far away! Her place at the table would be 
empty, her chair stand against the wall, the old home was 
home no longer. 

Anthony saw her bright face shadowed for a minute and 
divined her thought : but before he could speak she turned 
and clung to him. 

“ I have you ! ” she said. 


CHAPTER XIV 


AT HOME 

“ Anthony, I have got a surprise for you. Do come. 
Tea’s quite ready. What do you think I did this 
morning ? ” 

“ I can’t guess,” returned Anthony, sinking into the arm- 
chair his wife wheeled forward for him. “ This is luxury 
after our long tramp through the snow ! Are you not 
glad I made you come out, you lazy person? Now you 
will enjoy your cosey room, and your fire, and your tea, 
much more than if you had stayed indoors toasting your 
toes all day. Well, now let us have the mystery — you 
seem very much elated.” 

“ Perhaps I have reason to be elated, and perhaps I am 
not so lazy as you think. Is the butter good, Anthony?” 

“ Yes, very good. Why are you retreating behind my 
chair ? ” 

‘‘ But isn’t it particularly good ? ‘ extry ’ as dear old 
Barbara says. I made it, Anthony — in the Devonshire 
way. You are not angry, are you ?” 

Her liands rested on his shoulders, and now, leaning 
forward, she dropped a little airy kiss on his forehead. 

“ I am not sure,” he answered solemnly. “ 1 think you 
should have asked my leave, especially as this is not the 
first time the question arises.” 

He had not yet lost his delight in teasing her ; and was 
never more pleased than when he succeeded in evoking 
a momentary flash of temper. Her penitence was so 
speedy and so sweet ; it was such a pleasure to caress and 

112 


AT HOME 


113 


chide together, and then, with laughing eyes, forgive. 
But Ruth was always desperately ashamed of her little 
ebullitions, and felt a good deal of diffidence in again 
reverting to a subject about which she and her husband 
had had a dispute. The subject of butter-making was 
one. On first arriving at their Devonshire home, Friars- 
leigh, where they were now installed, after travelling 
about for nearly a year, Ruth had amused him by her joy 
in seeing cows, and pigs, and chickens once more ; an- 
nouncing with rapture that she was longing to learn how 
to make butter after the manner of the country. There- 
upon Anthony had pretended to be aggrieved, telling her 
that he believed, while he had been endeavoring to enter- 
tain her with foreign life and scenes, she had been secretly 
hankering after “ shippons ” and dairies, and regretting 
her bed-gown and her clogs. Ruth had been very nearly 
reduced to tears on that occasion ; but now she was begin- 
ning to understand her husband’s ways, and was seldom 
alarmed at his mock severity. 

“ Come here and let me see if you are duly contrite,” he 
continued, stretching out a lazy arm, and drawing her 
round in front of his chair. “ You look like a butter- 
maker, I must say,” laughing, but surveying her with 
tender admiration. 

Ruth had ‘‘ fined down ” a little since her marriage, and 
the beauty of her form was shown to advantage this after- 
noon in the softly flowing white tea-gown — her ordinary 
evening attire — which she had assumed, to save time and 
trouble, on her return from walking. 

I have not told you all, yet,” she said, laughing with 
him. “ I made the bread, too ! ” 

“Ah, this is too much,” returned her husband in deep 
tones of would-be indignation. “ The bread ! This 
passes ! ” 

“ I thought you wouldn’t mind,” she cried joyfully. 
“ I knew you wouldn’t mind ! Yes, I am not quite so easily 
8 


114 


A DAUGHTER OF THE SOIL 


taken in as I used to be, you see. I can tell when you are 
making believe, and when you are really angry.” 

“ As if you had ever seen me really angry, child ! The 
cook was angry though, wasn’t she ? ” 

“ No, she wasn’t. I managed so well. I asked her to 
let me try to make butter in the Devonshire way. It’s 
very simple, you know, and saves a great deal of trouble, 
but I think our Lancashire method much cleaner — I can’t 
do with so much handling.” 

Anthony nodded, amused at her earnest tone ; it was 
evidently a matter of no small importance in her eyes. 

“ Well, Mrs. Hanley was really most kind and obliging, 
and thought I managed wonderfully. Then, when I was 
leaving the dairy I had to pass through the kitchen, and 
there was the dough all running over the pans and smelling 
so delicious ! I really couldn’t help it ! I tucked up my 
sleeves, and scooped out a handful or two, and kneaded 
and twisted, and in two minutes there was the sweetest 
little cottage-loaf ! Do take another piece, Anthony.” 

Anthony imprisoned the hand which was on its way to 
the bread-plate, and shook his head. 

‘‘ Ruth, you are a lost woman ! Mrs. Hanley will never 
respect you again.” 

Oh, yes, she will. She stood by me, advising and 
approving, and told me in the end it was not at all bad for 
a first attempt ! ” 

They both laughed. 

“ The best of it is,” Ruth went on, “ her loaves did not 
rise half so well as mine. May I make the bread some- 
times, Anthony ? ” 

“You may do any earthly thing you like, except feed 
the pigs and wear clogs ; those are the only amusements 
I forbid.” 

They now discussed the cottage-loaf, Anthony loud in 
his expressions of approval, and inwardly amused at his 
wife’s pride and delight ; and presently, tea being over, he 


AT HOME 


115 


withdrew to write a letter, — an important letter to his agent 
which he told his wife must go by the next post, — while 
Ruth set to work to renew the flowers in her vases. 

The conservatory at Friarsleigh ran the whole length of 
the house ; all the reception rooms opened into it, and it 
had, morever, a door at either end leading to the garden. 
It was at all times bright with flowers ; the primulas, cycla- 
mens, and hyacinths with which it was now filled making 
a kind of spurious spring within its precincts, which con- 
trasted strongly with the snowy waste without. 

Snow seldom visits Southern Devonshire, but when it 
does there is a good deal of it. It lay inches deep that 
January day over gardens and fields, making furry out- 
lines to the branches of the larger trees, and white oddly 
shaped hillocks of the shrubs. The moon had not yet 
risen, but the snow caused all objects to be easily discern- 
able. Ruth stood for a moment looking out on the dreary 
white expanse. Then she began to fill her basket. As she 
passed the study window, which, like those of the drawing- 
room and little dining-room, opened into the conserva- 
tory, she tapped at the pane and nodded. Anthony 
looked up, smiling ; watched for a moment or two the 
white figure moving to and fro among the flowers, and 
then returned to his task. 

A lamp stood on a bracket in the conservatory, just out- 
side the window near which he was stationed, and as Ruth 
passed and repassed, selecting and snipping, her figure cast 
a momentary shadow across his table ; it was pleasant to 
Anthony to have her proximity thus recalled. He paused, 
smiling to himself as the shadow came and went ; but after 
a little time it came no more. 

‘‘Her task is done,” he said, and went on writing more 
diligently now. 

Never before surely was there so sweet a wife, so adoring 
a husband ; it seemed to Anthony that every day spent in 
Ruth’s society discovered to him new heights and depths 


116 


A DAUGHTER OF THE SOIL 


of love. Sometimes, indeed, Ruth was almost fright- 
ened at the strength of his passion for her ; and tried 
timidly to suggest that she was not worthy to be worshipped 
thus. But Anthony scouted the idea with such wealth of 
caresses and tender words, and his devotion was moreover 
so sweet to her, that her remonstrances were soon silenced, 
and she even secretly rejoiced in her power over him, 
thinking it might lead him in time to higher things. 
Indeed there were apparently grounds for her hope : 
since their marriage Anthony had in many ways altered 
for the better. He had grown softer, gentler, less restless ; 
he displayed a generous reverence not only for all that 
was high and noble in the natural order, but even in the 
supernatural, as expounded by his wife. He often accom- 
panied her to church, patiently and lovingly watching her as 
she prayed ; he led her on to talk of matters appertaining 
to her faith, meeting her wistful glance with a tender 
smile, and encouraging her to proceed, when she paused, 
startled at her own temerity. What wonder that she should 
fancy her prayer already granted, and think he was insen- 
sibly turning to God. She could not understand that his 
appreciation of her faith and piety was merely aesthetic. 
He admired them as he admired her beauty; he loved her 
innocence and her goodness because they went to make up 
that whole which he called his wife. It was pleasant to 
hear her talking so sweetly of the things she held holy ; 
he liked to watch her face the while, to see the light in her 
eyes, the color come and go in her cheeks ; he was touched 
to the heart’s core by the glimpses she. gave him of her 
pure soul. 

But now and then some word or act of his would startle 
her, and awaken within her strange doubts and fears. One 
day, for instance, coming into her room he took up a little 
gold crucifix which he had given her shortly after their 
marriage, and which she had just laid on her dressing- 
table. 


AT HOME 


117 


“ This is beautifully modelled,” he said. “ It was a 
chance my coming across it. I thought it would be exactly 
what you would like.” 

“ Indeed it is,” said Ruth. “ It is my greatest treasure. 
I always wear it next my heart.” 

Turning round the next moment she caught sight of her 
husband pressing the crucifix to his lips, and flew to his 
side. 

“ Oh, Anthony ! Oh, my dear love ! ” 

She threw her arms round him, her face transfigured, 
tears of rapture in her eyes. Anthony felt suddenly 
ashamed. 

“Did you not say you had always worn it next your 
heart ? ” he said quickly. 

“ Then it was — for my sake you kissed it ? ” 

“ Yes, it was for your sake. Do not look so sad. Is it 
not well to be loved as I love you ? ” 

“ Oh, yes — it is very sweet, very blessed. But, love, there 
is something higher. Oh, I wish, I wish you could see it ! 
There is a greater good than the tenderest human love. 
Oh, if I could only make you see it — if you would look 
beyond me, higher than me.” 

He stopped her earnest speech with kisses. 

“ I cannot look higher,” he whispered. “ You are my 
heaven ! ” 

Ruth sighed,, and then, meeting his ardent gaze, she 
smiled : with all her spirituality she was very human. 

Twice she had been to the Warren Farm and each time 
her husband accompanied her ; taking his place quite 
naturally in the primitive household there, and inspiring as 
much affection as awe in his father-in-law’s breast. If he 
felt bored on these occasions he was careful not to show it ; 
a proof of delicate tenderness which did not escape Ruth. 
Her father had not yet visited Friarsleigh, but held out 
distant hopes that “in summer belike — arter hay’s cut an’ 
that, we’s see while Barbara bashfully requested the 


118 


A DAUGHTER OF THE SOIL 


couple to “ git along ” whenever they renewed their 
invitation to her, but was none the less grateful and 
elated. 

With each return to Friarsleigh Ruth felt a fresh rush of 
happiness : this was their home — now they would begin 
their life together anew. 


CHAPTER XV 


A STRANGER 

When Ruth had filled her basket she paused a moment, 
before returning to the drawing-room, to look forth once 
more into the desolate outside world. How dreary it was, 
how cold, how ghostly ! What a contrast to the world 
within — her world, warm, bright, flower-scented, overflow- 
ing with love and happiness. Every day brought her and 
her husband more closely together ; he would surely soon 
be one with her in soul ; and then indeed her cup of joy 
would be full ! 

What had she done, thought Ruth to herself, still gaz- 
ing dreamily over the snow-clad landscape ; what had she 
done to deserve such blessedness ? Why should she have 
been thus singled out when there was so much misery in 
the world ? Broken hearts, lives forlorn ; at that very 
moment how many human creatures were wandering shiver- 
ing in the bitter night ; homeless, shelterless, cast off it 
would seem by God and man ! Ruth shivered too as she 
tried to imagine what it would be like to be out in the 
night with that dark sky overhead and icy wind whistling 
in one’s ears, the snow sending creeping chills through the 
numbed limbs — death in the heart ! 

Ah, what was that moving yonder over the pathless 
waste ? A dark figure stumbling slowly forward, pausing 
from time to time, and then advancing again. It was 
approaching the house. Who could it be ? Surely none 
of the servants abroad so late, and on such a night. A 
beggar, perhaps. Ruth wished he or she would move more 
quickly, that she might hasten with alms and succor. The 

119 


120 


A DAUGHTER OF THE SOIL 


creature should at least be warmed and fed before braving 
the wintry dark again. Anthony would laugh, as he 
always did, at her softness of heart, but he himself, as she 
knew, would be first to desire her to be lavish in such a 
case as this. 

It was a woman : Ruth could see at last — a woman 
walking rapidly now, her draperies fluttering, her head 
bent down, as she fought the blast. 

Ruth went quickly to the green-house door, intending to 
desire the stranger to go round to the back of the house, 
where she would meet her and attend to her wants ; but 
as she opened it, the woman raised her head and paused. 

Ruth paused too, a little startled. The new-comer, as 
she could now see, even in the dim light of the distant 
lamp, was no beggar. She was warmly clad — even with a 
certain finery ; there were feathers in her hat, and her 
tippet and muff were of costly fur. What could she want ? 
She must surely have come to Friarsleigh by mistake. 

She stood in the door-way for a moment, without speak- 
ing, and then thrust forward her head, so that the light 
fell across her face. It was a good-looking face in its way, 
with very full red lips and narrow bright eyes ; but it was 
marred by streaks of paint which had been smeared and 
dabbled by the snow. Not a young face, though the dress 
of its owner, and the elaborate arrangement of the abun- 
dant reddish-gold hair, were both of juvenile fashion. 

“ Can I come in this way ? ” she asked. Without wait- 
ing for a reply she stepped across the threshold, and then 
paused, staring the while at Ruth with curious intentness. 

“I want to see Mr. Clifton,” she said. Ruth drew 
back a little : something about the woman’s manner re- 
pelled her — what could she want with Anthony? 

“Mr. Clifton is engaged,” she answered. “He is writ- 
ing letters and does not wish to be disturbed.” 

“I won’t keep him long — I just want ten minutes with 
him. Ten minutes will do it.” 


A STRANGER 


121 


Ruth hesitated. The new-comer’s assurance, a certain 
impudence in her smile, a perceptible defiance in her tone, 
roused in her an unaccountable sense of aversion and fear. 
What could have brought her there — what could she have 
to say to Anthony ? Ruth felt — she knew not why — a 
strong objection to their meeting. 

‘‘ It is so late,” she said. “ Why do you come at such a 
curious time ? Do you want to see Mr. Clifton particu- 
larly, or can you leave a message with me ? I am Mrs. 
Clifton.” 

The other burst out laughing : a vulgar, cackling laugh. 

“ Not if I know it !” she cried, and laughed again ; but 
after a minute’s pause she composed herself. 

“ Well — are you going to fetch Anthony ?” 

Anthony! The color leaped to Ruth’s face, and her 
heart beat almost audibly. Was it possible that her hus- 
band had ever been intimate with this creature? 

“ You must state your business,” she said briefly, her 
indignation lending sharpness to the words. “ I will not 
have Mr. Clifton disturbed without necessity. What is 
your name — what do you want ? ” 

“ I’m not going to tell you. You had better call 
Anthony — you had indeed : else there ’ll be a row, and 
then you’ll be sorry.” 

Ruth was fast losing her self-control : but her repulsion 
and increasing wrath served only to increase her determi- 
nation to prevent this woman from forcing herself into 
her husband’s presence. 

“ I do not intend to call Mr. Clifton,” she said resolutely. 
“If you have any business with him, send him a letter. 
You have no right to push into the house in this way ” 

“ No right ! ” interrupted the other, with sudden, start- 
ling fierceness. “ Perhaps, my fine madam, I’ve more 
right to be in this house than you ! ” 

“ Now, you really must go away,” said Ruth, all her 
young blood up. “ Go at once, or I will ring for the ser- 


122 


A DAUGHTEE OF THE SOIL 


vants. There is not the least use in making a disturbance 
here. You are an insolent woman, and you must go away. 
You can write to my husband if you want to.” 

“ Yes — I dare say. And you’ll take good care he doesn’t 
get the letter.” 

“ I am going to ring the bell,” said Ruth, moving quickly 
toward the inner room. 

‘‘ Well, do ring. Ring ! I’ll tell your precious servants 
something that will surprise them. Perhaps they’ll think 
twice before they turn tlieir master’s wife out of doors. 
Ah, you may stare, but it is the truth. I am Anthony 
Clifton’s wife — his lawful wife — I’ve got my lines to prove 
it. And you — you threaten me and order me out of the 
house, do you ? Who are you, I should like to know ? ” 

Ruth paused, thunder-struck — ashy white. Anthony 
Clifton's wife ! Then, with a sudden rush of passionate 
relief, she recovered her self-command. Why, the woman’s 
effrontery had for a moment robbed her of her common 
sense ! His wife — she dared to call herself his wife, to 
her, Ruth! And Ruth was actually so foolish as to let 
herself be taken aback ! His wife ! The woman was 
either mad or the most inconceivable impostor. But there 
must be an end of this. She must not be allowed to say 
such things. Ruth was turning in fiery indignation, when 
a gesture on the part of the new-comer suddenly arrested 
her. She had stretched out her ungloved left hand, on 
which the wedding-ring was conspicuous. Her whole 
manner had changed, and the fury in her face had now 
given way to an expression of malevolent triumph. 

“Ask Anthony,” she said quietly. “Just fetch him 
here, and see what he says. It’s thirteen years since we 
met, but I think he’ll recognize me.” 

Ruth stood as if turned to stone ; she tried to speak, but 
no words would come. A great dread gripped her heart, 
a dread which gathered strength and intensity every 
moment. 


A STRANGER 


123 


“ You fetch Anthony here — you call him, and he’ll tell 
you all about it. You thought he was your husband, I 
dare say — but you see I happened to have the start of you : 
I am Number One.” 

Ruth fell back against the wall, almost swooning for the 
first time in her life. Oh, God ! what horror was this ? 

“ Call him,” repeated the other, nodding her head, “ call 
him if you don’t believe me.” 

But Ruth did believe her. The awful, sickening convic- 
tion was borne in on her that the stranger was speaking 
the truth. The truth ! Then she was Anthony’s wife, 
come back as it were from the grave to break his heart — 
it was characteristic of Ruth that even in this extremity 
of anguish her first thought was for him. He had be- 
lieved this woman to be dead — of course he believed her 

to be dead, and fancied himself free — and now It 

would kill him ! Oh, Anthony ! Anthony ! how would 
he bear it ? 

Even as, in her despair, she asked herself this question, 
she heard the study door open, and his footstep cross the 
adjoining room. 

“Ruth, what have you been about all this time, and 
who on earth has been talking to you ? ” 

She started forward, conscious only of the frantic desire 
to spare him. He would have to be told, of course, but 
not suddenly, lest he die of the shock. Oh, Heaven help 
her to break the terrible news wisely and gently ! 

The woman had also heard him approach, and stepped 
quickly toward the open French window. 

As Ruth advanced Clifton caught her swaying figure in 
his arms, but — she had seen his face. 

“ Oh, Anthony, you hnew I ” 

For a moment or two she could not tell what happened : 
she knew that Anthony was speaking, though she scarcely 
recognized his voice ; she felt his chest heave beneath her 
head, and his encircling arms tremble. She listened to 


124 


A DAUGHTER OF THE SOIL 


the stranger’s tones, first raised in shrill anger, then sullen ; 
reiterating certain phrases which Ruth heard without 
comprehending. All at once something seemed to snap 
in her brain and the full extent of her misfortune over- 
whelmed her. That woman yonder was Anthony’s wife — 
his wife! What then was she ? 

She raised her head, and looked at him, making a futile 
effort to disengage herself. 

“ Oh, Anthony ! ” she moaned, ‘‘ Anthony ! ” 

‘‘ Darling ! ” he cried, answering the agonized query in 
her eyes. “ You are my wife in deed and truth. She — 
is nothing to me. I was trapped by her while I was still 

a boy — fooled into a marriage ” 

“ Oh, yes ; it was. Come ! You don’t try that game 
with me. I am your lawful wife, married by the clergy- 
man of the Established Church, and every thing quite 
regular. It’s all down in black and white, and can be 
proved any day.” 

“ I say it was no marriage,” repeated Anthony hoarsely. 
“ I was a boy — I did not know my own mind — she was 
already old in infamy. She had not been my wife three 
months before I found out what she was — the vilest of the 
vile — and left her in disgust. I have never seen lier since, 

but I have heard of her — of her shameful doings ” 

The other interrupted with a sneer : “ I heard a thing 

or two about you, if it comes to that.” 

“ Oh, hush, hush ! ” exclaimed Ruth, wringing her 
hands. “I can’t bear it — I won’t hear any more. Oh, 
Anthony, send her away ; send her away ! I must 

think Oh, what shall I do ? ” 

“Go!” cried Anthony, turning to the new-comer. 
“ Go, at once — do you hear ? ” 

“Not if I know it,” retorted the woman. “Look here, 
I don’t leave this house till we come to terms, Anthony. 
You can stop the supplies, I know, but I can have you up 
for bigamy, so you had better mind what you are about.” 


A STRANGER 


125 


‘^You will gain nothing by it,” said Anthony. “On 
the contrary you will lose every thing. You will rue this 
day, I warn you ! ” 

“You think so — do you ?” said she impudently. Then, 
leaning against the window-frame, she folded her arms, 
and stared at him. 

“ What are you driving at ? ” he cried at last irritably. 
“ Wliat is it you want ? For Heaven’s sake say it, and go ! ” 

“ 1 thought you’d come round,” she exclaimed triumph- 
antly. “ What do I want ? I want money ! I’ve never 
interfered before, have I ? I’ve let you go your way, much 
as you’ve let me go mine ; but when I found out you’d 
actually set up another Mrs. Clifton, I said to myself ^ I’m 
on in this scene ! ’ You thought me safe enough in India, 
but things get out, you see, and your lawful wife is not 
to be put off with a pittance while your — fancy — is living 
on the fat of the land. I couldn’t afford such a tea- 
gown ! No, no, I’m on in this scene, I tell you. You’ll 
have to fork out, Anthony ; you must increase my allow- 
ance if you want me to keep quiet.” 

“It’s too late,” he said, between his teeth; he looked as 
though he could have killed her where she stood, for Ruth, 
though she was trembling in every limb, had withdrawn 
herself from his embrace and stood a little apart from 
him. 

“ Not a bit too late ! We can settle our business without 
any one being the wiser. I’ve been most careful, I assure 
you — nobody knows what’s up. I’ve been very quiet over 
my researches. Why, you fool ! it was easy enough to 
catch you ! I’ve been up North and made enquiries there, 
and then I came here. You were rather rash, weren’t 
you ? To set up your little establishment in your own 
home. I’ve been a few days in this hole of a village, look- 
ing after you — I saw you both coming in from your stroll 
to-day — so lovey-dovey.” 

“ Oh, Anthony, make her go, make her go ! ” urged 


126 


A DAUGHTER OF THE SOIL 


Ruth frantically. The words stabbed her ; the proximity 
of the woman was insulting, unendurable. 

“All right! I’ll go just now — perhaps. I wouldn’t be 
stuck-up, if I were you. Number Two. If I chose to hold out 
for my rights it’s you who should be sent packing, remem- 
ber. Well, Anthony, what are you going to do for me ?” 

“ D you ! will you go ? ” cried Clifton, striding 

toward her. 

The expression of his face cowed her ; for a moment a 
flash of physical fear was visible on her own. 

“ Well, come and see me, will you? ’’she asked, with 
assumed carelessness, backing toward the door as he 
advanced. “ You’d better, really. Don’t you try to give 
me the slip, that’s all. I’m at the inn ; you know. Ask 
for Mrs. Hartop.” 

At last the nightmare of her presence was removed and 
Anthony turned to Ruth. 

She stood where he had left her, framed by the blossom- 
ing creepers, all the flowers round her, the basket of spring 
blooms overturned at her feet. The lamp behind her shone 
on her bent head, the outline of her white face, the folds of 
her dress. 

He drew near impetuously, but paused as she looked up ; 
something in the expression of her face seemed to forbid 
his nearer approach. 

“ Anthony, I cannot understand I ” 

He looked anxiously at her. “ You are very angry, my 
poor love ? ” 

“Angry ! Oh, no ! but I don’t understand. Anthony ! ” 
— with a sudden pitiful cry — “ tell me — I want 'to know 
every thing ! ” 

“ Darling, you have heard what she said. It was when 
I first went to India. I was only a boy, and she — I did 
not know then what she was. But in a few months I 
learned by chance, and cast her off with loathing. No one 
knew I was married to her — though I was a hot-headed 


A STRANGER 


127 


idiot I had sense enough to keep it secret. Even while I 
was ignorant of her character, I knew I should be ruined 
if it got out that I had married so much beneath me. 
Afterward I paid her to hold her tongue and keep away 
from me. She was glad enough to get rid of me on those 
terms — and so we each went to the devil in our own way. 

As for me ” 

Ruth looked at him piteously. 

I was mad with shame and fury,” he went on rapidly. 
“ I played fast and loose with life, Ruth. I gave up my 
career — which might have been a brilliant one — and did all 
kinds of wild and wicked things. The thought that I was 
bound legally, but not justly, to a woman whose name 
had been a by-word for years before I met her ; bound for 
life, for the circumstances did not admit of a divorce ; 

the feeling of having been duped Oh, Ruth, I cannot 

describe what frenzy it was ! It seemed to rouse every 
evil passion within me — to let loose a thousand devils. 

I had sunk low, very low, when I met you ” 

The expression of her eyes, which were still fixed on his 
face, did not change, but she heaved a little sigh. 

‘‘ and for the first time knew what it was to love a 

woman with an absorbing, devoted, and — ^yes, I will say it — 
a pure love. Oh, Ruth, my Ruth, since I have known you 
I have never harbored a thought you might not share. 
You have uplifted me, drawn me out of myself, taught me 
to see the beauty of goodness and purity. You are my 
wife ! The accident which gave that woman the right to 
call herself by my name does not really affect us. You are 
mine, and I am yours, forever and forever. You will not 
let her or any one come between us, will you ? ” 

Ruth’s lips moved, but no words came : her face looked 
dazed and stricken, and in her eyes was still that wonder- 
ing pain which pierced him to the heart. 

“ This is killing you, and I, I have done it ! I who 
would give my life for you ! ” 


128 


A DAUGHTER OF THE SOIL 


“ Poor Anthony ! ” said Ruth very gently. Then she 
put her hand to her brow. ‘‘We must think,” she added 
faintly. 

“ My sweet, I was a brute to deceive you, but I felt I 
could not live without you, and I knew I could make you 
happy — I thought you need never know. But my whole 
life shall be a long act of atonement. If I loved you 

before I will love you ten times more now ” 

“ Stop ! stop ! You must not speak to me so. Oh, 
Anthony, I must go ; you know I must go ! ” 

“ Go ! ” echoed Anthony passionately. “ Leave me, 
Ruth ? ” He checked himself — and continued more gently, 
“ My poor child, you don’t know what you are saying. 
You cannot leave me now. You — we have gone too far. 
How could you go home ? What would your father 
think ? What would every one say ? ” 

His heart smote him as he saw the tears spring to her 
eyes ; but her scruples must be conquered at any cost. He 
went on hastily : 

“ Be reasonable, Ruth. No one need know about this 
woman. She has her price — she dare not make any thing 
public. I will take means to prevent her ever disturbing us 
again. If you like we will go away together, you and I, and 
begin the world in a strange place where there can be no 
painful associations. Dear, all places are alike to me when 
I have you.” 

“ How can I stay with you ? You know I cannot ! It 
would be a sin — I am not your wife ! ” 

“ Before Heaven you are my wife. If there be a heaven, 
if there be a God, you are my wife. Are you not bound 
to me by the most solemn tie that can unite woman and 
man ? Did you not swear before your altar to cleave to 
me till death ? You are bound to me even by the laws of 
your own religion, surely — and I — I recognize no bond 
except the supreme love which unites me to you.” 

“ Oh, Anthony, hush ! it would be wrong. You don’t 


A STRAl^GER 


129 


want me to do wrong ? You who — who used to say I 
helped you to be good.” 

In her voice what pathetic incredulity — in her heart 
what desperate clinging to a shattered ideal ! 

“ I take it all on myself ! ” cried Anthony wildly. “ If 
there be sin let it be on my head ! Your God will hold 
you guiltless, love ; you cannot struggle against your fate. 
We are made for each other, and you know it. You who 
believe in a Power which rules all things wisely, ask your- 
self if it could be right to separate the two parts of a per- 
fect whole. Reason itself supports me. Surely you can 
see, Ruth, how senseless it would be to leave me merely 
because of the foolish ceremony to which I submitted years 
and years ago, impelled by self-will and mad passion. 
Neither I nor the woman to whom it was supposed to bind 
me had the smallest reverence for it : my motives I have 
told you ; hers were selfish cunning and greed ; the man, 
the clergyman, who gabbled his formula over us you would 
not even acknowledge to be a priest. Is such a mockery 
of a union as this to be weighed for a moment with the 
union I contracted with you ? A union which I swore in 
my inmost heart should last till death — which becomes 
closer, more sacred every day that we live. If there be 
truth ” 

“ Oh, hush ! ” she groaned. I can’t argue, I can only 
feel. I know I must go.” 

‘‘So this is your love ! ” he exclaimed bitterly. “You, 
who told me so often there was nothing you could not for- 
give me ! Did you not even stop me when I could almost 
have confessed ? ” 

“But I didn’t know ! ” interrupted Ruth, with a burst 
of piteous weeping. “ Oh, Anthony, how could I know ? ” 

“ You told me you would rather not know — you said 
you would forgive me any thing — and I was fool enough 
to believe you. You talked so much of love and trust I 
did not think you could be hard and narrow-minded. But 
3 


130 


A DAUGHTER OF THE SOIL 


your love is not strong enough to make jon sacrifice a 
foolish prejudice ; your trust — what does it consist in ? 
You set up your judgment against mine, you refuse to 
bend your will to mine, though this means life and death 
to me. What is your love worth ? You wreck my hap- 
piness for a quibble ! ” 

Even though he shook with passion, his words being 
scarcely articulate in his frenzy, he was conscious of the 
infamy of thus reproaching the woman he had wronged ; 
throwing in her teeth the innocence of which he had taken 
advantage, denying the love and trust of which she had 
given such pitiful proof. But he would stop at nothing at 
such a moment — violence, cruelty, insincerity — anything 
was permissible that might soften her or shake her purpose. 
Better to fall forever in his own esteem and even in hers 
than to give her up. He could not give her up. Never 
had he loved her so madly as now, though he showed her 
no mercy. 

Ruth looked at him with the startled, wounded look of 
a favored child which had received an unexpected blow ; 
like a child’s too was the quivering lip, the frightened 
pause in her weeping, but it was the anguish of a tortured 
woman’s heart that escaped in the cry : 

“ Oh, Anthony ! ” 

Anthony fell on his knees, clasping her dress, and plead- 
ing desperately for pardon, for mercy ; imploring her at 
last with sobs to stay with him, she who was his love, his 
life, his salvation, 

“If you drive me away from you, you drive me to 
perdition. You deliver me over to evil ; you wreck me, 
body and soul. I am lost forever if you cast me off. 
Ruth, Ruth, do not cast me off ! Say you will stay 
with me ! ” 

His hot tears were falling on her bands ; his face, dis- 
figured in its hot, passionate grief, was upturned to hers ; 
his arms, creeping upward, clasped her waist. 


A STEANGER 


131 


. “Love, one word. You will not leave me? You will 
not leave me, Ruth ? ” 

For one moment everything went from her except the 
consciousness of her love — her overwhelming love — and 
his sorrow. 

Stooping, she flung her arms about him and pressed her 
face to his. Her tears were on his cheek, and her kisses 
on his lips — but it was only for a moment. Then with a 
stifled scream she pushed him from her. 

“ Oh, my God, what am I doing ? Let me go ! ” 

“ I will never let you go ! You are mine, heart and soul.’’ 

He would have caught her in his arms again, but she 
eluded them, and rushed wildly away from him, out of the 
door, out into the snow, staggering forward she knew not 
whither, and at last falling on her face. 

Anthony gazed for a second or two at the white, motion- 
less heap ; and then approaching with rapid steps, raised 
her without a word and carried her into his study. 

“I must go!” she repeated desperately. “I will go, I 
will not stay another hour in the house ! ” 

She sank into a chair, for the moment too faint to stand. 
Anthony stood looking down at her sullenly, his face set 
and grim, his frame trembling with anger and impotent 
passion. 

“ I must go ! ” said Ruth once more, with a kind of wail. 

“ Go, then. Make your own arrangements. I will not 
interfere.” 

He crossed the room, and sat down at his writing-table 
with his back to her. He heard the rustle of her draperies 
as she rose and walked to the door; the handle rattled 
under her fumbling, uncertain fingers, and then the door 
closed behind her. A bell rang, and he could hear the 
maid hastening to her room in response ; then hurried 
steps overhead, the girl descending the stairs again. 

“ She is ordering a fly to take her to the station,” he 
thought. 


132 


A DAUGHTER OF THE SOIL 


He wondered idly what the servants would think, what 
Bob Sefton would say when his daughter arrived to-mor- 
row morning in the gray dawn — she could only catch the 
night train northward, though she was in such a hurry to 
leave — what would Henry say when he heard ? It mattered 
little. She was going, going in spite of his entreaties ; 
breaking his heart and her own for the sake of- a whim — a 
scruple ! Sacrificing him remorselessly to her obstinate 
bigotry. Let her go — she was not the woman he had 
thought her. 

Hark ! now came the muffled sound of wheels without — 
there was her step on the stair, crossing the hall, pausing 
just outside his door. A long pause. Anthony’s heart 
beat audibly; he half rose, listening with strained ears, 
watching the door-way with starting eyes. She would 
come in — her heart had failed her at the last — sweet, tender 
Ruth ! She would come and throw herself on his bosom 
and tell him she could not live without him. 

Ruth, meanwhile, on the other side of the door was 
wrestling with deadly temptation ; the feverish energy 
which had enabled her to accomplish all necessary prepara- 
tions for her journey had deserted her now ; her clogged 
feet refused to bear her past his threshold. He was 
there, a few paces away from her ; if she went in she 
would see him — but she must not go in, she dared not go 
in. She must go, now, at once, without so much as a 
good-by ! 

It had always been her custom to report herself to 
Anthony before absenting herself even for a short time 
from the house. She would scarcely have betaken herself 
to the garden or the poultry-yard without first running in 
for a moment to tell him where he would find her “ in 
case he might want her,” and to drop a hasty kiss on the 
dear head bent over book or blotter. 

And now she was going — forever, and he would want 
her, and pine for her, and she must not say good-by ! 


A STRANGER 


133 


Close to her, hanging on a cloak-rack, was the coat he 
had worn that afternoon when they went for their last walk 
together. There was the flower she had given him still 
drooping from the buttonhole ; on that sleeve her hand 
had blithely rested. With a sudden gasping sob she caught 
hold of it, and kissed it, and then walked blindly to the 
open hall-door. 

Anthony heard the sob, the retreating steps, and remained, 
as it were, transfixed. The outer door closed with a sound 
which echoed through the house ; now came the thud of a 
horse’s hoofs, the roll of wheels. She was gone ! 


CHAPTER XVI 


FATHER AND DAUGHTER 

“ CooM t’ yo’r breakfast, gaffer — eh, did a body iver 
see sich a mon ? What are yo’ doin’, lookin’ out yon ? 
Is th’ stacks afire ? Whativer is’t ? ” 

“ Theer’s a car drivin’ up this gate-on.” 

A car ! Th’ mon’s moiderin’ ! A car i’ th’ lone, afore 
it’s leet ! It ’ll be Luke startin’ wi’ that load o’ taters he ’as 
to take to market this mornin’ — an’ late too. I’d sauce him 
for bein’ sich a lay-i’-bed if I was yo’.” 

“ Nay, lass, th’ lad’s started this two hours. It’s a car, I 
tell ’ee. I’ve got e’en in my yead as well as thee. Coom 
an’ look for thysel’. It’s a car an’ — by the mass ! it’s 
turnin’ up our way. It ’ll be our Ruth coom to surprise- 
us!” 

‘‘ Our Ruth ! Why, hoo’s nobbut just gone ! — it’s not 
above three weeks sin’ Christmas. Eh, dear o’ me ! An’ 
room niver ready, ah’ nought i’ th’ buttery but pork — an’ 
Maggie i’ th’ middle of her wesh.” 

“ Dom th’ wesh ! The wench is welcome as how ’tis 
— eh, bless thy heart, my bonny lass 1 Thou’s coom, 
has thou? Thou’rt welcome an’ thy mester too. But 
how’s this, hasn’t he coom wi’ thee this time ?” 

“ Not this time,” said Ruth. She was clinging to her 
father so that he could not see her face. 

“ Well, it was real ’andsome on him to let ’ee coom again 
so soon. Has thou th’ brass for driver ? Theer ! Now, 
mester, mind how yo’ turn, j^on, and pull th’ gate to arter 
yo’. Now then — let’s have a gradely good look at thee. 

134 


FATHER AND DAUGHTER 


135 


Bless thy bonny face, tliou’s tired, I reckon: thou’s nobbut 
pale ! ” 

“ Yo’ll not ha’ coomed for lung, I reckon. Mistress Clif- 
ton,” put in Barbara, who occasionally liked to treat her 
former charge with great ceremony. “ Yo’n browt nobbut 
a small box wi’ yo.” 

“Well, has thou niver a word for feyther ? How’s all 
yonder ? How’s ’usband, eh ? ” 

“Father, I’m so tired ! ” pleaded poor Ruth desperately. 
“ I’ve been travelling all night. Mayn’t I just come in 
and have a cup of tea ? I’m too tired to talk now.” 

“ May thee have a cup o’ tay ! Ay, sure ! Thou can 
have twenty cups if thou’s a mind. In wi’ thee, Barbara — 
mak’ a fresh brew. Is kettle boilin’ ? Well, lass, an what- 
ever brought thee travellin’ all neet, eh ? ” 

“ I wanted to be — here sooner,” said Ruth. 

The old man marked her white, weary face with uneasy 
surprise, jogging Barbara’s elbow as she passed, and 
mutely enquiring by means of various jerks of the head, 
and raisings of tlie eyebrows, if she knew what was amiss. 
Barbara shook her head stolidly, and plied her young mis- 
tress with tea and toast in silence. When she saw that 
Ruth was somewhat restored, however, she planted herself 
in front of her. 

“ Out wi’t ! ” she said resolutely. “ As well fust as last. 
Summat’s amiss, an’ thou mun tell us.” 

Ruth put down her cup with a trembling hand, and 
looked from one to the other ; taking a desperate resolve 
the while. 

“ Father and Barbara, if there is any thing amiss, I can’t 
speak of it. I can’t ! and I beg you not to ask me. If 
you love me, don’t ask me ! Let me alone.” 

“ My patience ! ” exclaimed Barbara. “ Did any one iver 
hear th’ like ? What’s he bin doin’ to thee — eh ? to break 
thy ’eart that gate. Gaffer, he’s bin abusin’ her for sure ! 
He ’as, or hoo’d niver ha’ left him.” 


136 


A DAUGHTEE OF THE SOIL 


Gaffer struck the table with his great fist, and swore 
that if Mester Anthony had been “ abusing ” (^. e., ill- 
using) his wench, he’d make him smart for it, he would ; 
let him he squire’s cousin fifty times over. 

“ He’s a leet-minded, low-livin’ wastril ! that’s what he 
is ! ” resumed Barbara, with energy. “ I wish to the Lord, 
lass, thou’d never clapt e’en on him ! ” 

“ How dare you, Barbara ? ” cried Huth, jumping up 
with cheeks suddenly crimson. “ I won’t have you speak 
of him like that — I won’t hear a word against him.” 

“ Well, but see thou, lass, thou mun tell us what is to 
do. I’m fair moidered between yo’. Wheer’s thy ’us- 
band, an’ why dunno he coom wi’ thee ? — what’s he doin’ 
away fro’ thee if thou’s in trouble ? An’ whativer’s amiss 
that thou can’t name to us, eh ? ” 

“ I am not going to tell you,” retorted Ruth, with a pas- 
sion which startled them both. “ Not any one — not even 
you, father. Oh, dear father, don’t be angry, don’t ! I 
couldn’t bear it. Oh, father, father, my heart is broken ! ” 
She ran to him, twining her arms round his neck, and 
kissing him, sobbing. Poor old Bob hugged her in return, 
and stared aghast at Barbara, his jaw dropping, his face 
pale under all its sunburn. 

“ Don’t ’ee now, my wench,” he said, stooping over his . 
daughter after a pause ; “ see thou, thou’lt kill thysel’ if 
thou doesn’t give ower. Eh, how hoo does sob, an’ all of 
a shake ! Eh, dunnot, Ruthie, dunnot ! thou’lt break thy 
feyther’s ’eart, for sure. Eh, my wench ! ” 

“Why, Ruth, whativer is to do?” Barbara was begin- 
ning, innocently enough, when the farmer turned on her, 
glad to find some vent for his complexity of emotion : 

“ I wunnot ha’ the lass moidered an’ barged at fro’ 
mornin’ till neet, does tho’ year? I wonder at ’ee, that 
I do ! A body’d think thou’d ha’ a bit more feelin’ in thee 
at this time o’ day, thou’s owd enough. If our Ruth has 
a mind to keep her trouble to hersel’, let her alone, wilta ? 


FATHER AND DAUGHTER 


137 


Theer ! Who’s gaffer i’ this house ? Bob Sefton, I 
believe ; so keep that theer long tongue o’ thine behind thy 
teeth, wilta ? ” 

“ Yo’re all gone silly together ! ” said Barbara, setting to 
work to clear the table with much unnecessary rattling of 
crockeiy and whisking of skirts. “I’m gooin’ to feed 
pigs, an’ if yo’d a bit o’ sense in yo’r noddle, gaffer, yo’d 
give ower croodlin’ ower th’ lass, an’ let her lay down. 
Thot’s what I think — but theer ! if I can’t so mich as say 
a word wi’out bein’ sauced, I’ll howd my tongue, as isn’t 
so mich longer nor other folks’s when all’s said an’ done, 
I tell yo’, Mester Sefton.” 

“ Wilt thou lay down a bit, Ruthie ? ” asked the farmer. 
“ Wilt thou, lass ? on thy own little bed, thou knows? See 
thou,” speaking soothingly, as though to a child, “coom 
wi’ feyther, an’ lay thee down an hour or two, an’ thou’lt 
be better when thou wakkens. Eh, what red e’en, an’ all 
they tears on thy poor cheeks. Bide a bit till we wipe ’em 
away ! ” 

His own weather-beaten face was wet as he bent over 
her, mopping at her cheeks with his big red cotton 
handkerchief. 

“ Don’t ’ee cry, lass, don’t. Feyther ’ll see as no one 
interferes wi’ thee. Ho one shall ax thee nought, nor say 
nought as can ’urt thee. Theer now, coom to thy bed, an’ 
rest thee.” 

His hands were trembling and awkward, and the hand- 
kerchief coarse and redolent of tobacco, but oh, how grate- 
ful was his rough tenderness to Ruth ! She kissed him 
many times, trying brokenly to thank him, and at last 
suffered him to lead her away. 

In consequence of her father’s determined attitude of 
protection, no one in the farm precincts worried Ruth with 
questions or wondering comments on her sudden arrival ; 
even poor old Sefton himself refrained from alluding to 
her trouble, though, as the days passed, and Anthony 


138 


A DAUGHTER OF THE SOIL 


neither came nor wrote, he was sorely exercised in his 
mind. 

At last he resolved to consult Henry Alford. 

“ He knows pretty well th’ kind o’ lad yon is, an’ happen 
’ill be able to tell me what’s amiss wi’ him an’ our Ruth,” 
he thought. “An’ squire ’ll keep it to hissel.’ He isn’t 
iver one to be sayin’ mich.” 

One afternoon, therefore, having “ cleaned him ” and 
assumed his second-best coat, he betook himself to Alford 
Hall, and was duly ushered into Henry’s study. 

“How do you do. Bob? Sit down ; I’m glad to see 
you.” 

Mr. Sefton nodded, cleared his throat, gradually lowered 
himself on to the extreme edge of a chair, laid his hat 
and stick on the floor, recovered his equilibrium by slow 
degrees, laid a hand on each knee, and finally remarked in 
husky tones that it was a nice mild day for th’ time o’ 
year. 

As a cold north wind happened to be blowing, and there 
were about six inches of snow lying on the ground without, 
Henry laughed and observed that he could not say he had 
found it so himself. 

“ For th’ time o’ year, I say, sir,” reiterated the farmer, 
with dignity. “Janoowary, yo’ know, we reckon th’ 
cowdest month of all.” He paused and cleared his 
throat. “Eh, I’ve knowed soom terrible cowd Janoo- 
waries. I have that.” 

Henry smiled. 

“ Year afore last,” continued Bob as an after-thought, 
“ the very wells was froze.” 

There was a moment’s silence : the squire waiting in 
quiet amusement for the farmer to state the object of this 
visit and Bob staring about vaguely, repeating “ the very 
wells was froze,” as though to give himself a countenance. 

“Can I do any thing for you. Bob?” asked Henry 
presently. 


FATHER AND DAUGHTER 


139 


“ Nay, squire, thank ye, I’ve nobbut jest looked in, I 
may say. Jest looked in.” He coughed behind his hand. 
“I ’ope Mrs. Alford keeps ’er ’ealth. I — reckon ye’ll be 
bearin’ now and again from Mester Anthony.” 

“ No, indeed. Bob. I am sorry to say he never writes to 
me. But of course you hear all the news from Ruth.” 

“ Well, that’s just wheer it is, squire. Our Ruth’s coom 
whoam.” 

“Come home, has she? It is very soon to pay you a 
visit again. They were both staying with you for Christ- 
mas, weren’t they ? ” 

“Ah,” said Bob, “they were. But my lass, hoo’s coom 
by hersel’ this time ; an’ hoo’s seerain’ly in a bit o’ trouble.” 

Henry turned his chair round so as to face his visitor 
more directly. 

“ Trouble ! What is it — did she tell you what was 
wrong ? ” 

“No, hoo didn’t. That’s it, sir. Hoo wunnot tell no 
one what it is. Hoo gets agate o’ cryin’ if we ax her, an’ 
hoo says plain as hoo wunnot tell.” 

“ That is strange,” said Henry, his face almost as anx- 
ious as the father’s. “ I’m afraid it does not look well. 
Has — her husband been unkind to her? I can hardly 
believe it.” 

“ Nor I neither, squire. When they was here a two- 
three weeks ago he couldn’t bear her out of his seet. It 
was ‘ Ruth, Ruth,’ fro’ morn to neet, an’ th’ lass hersel’ 
seemed as blithe as a layrock. They’n happen had a few 
words over summat — an’ my wench coom her ways 
a-whoam in a bit of a temper. An’ yet I cannot think it, 
Mester Alford, I cannot. I’ve never known our Ruth 
keep it up agen no one — never ! Hoo’ll be a bit quick now 
an’ again, an’ out wi’ a sharp word, but it’s ower in a 
minute, an’ then hoo’ll coom wi’ tears in her e’en to mak’ 
it up.” 

“ Bob, you must get her to tell you what is the matter. 


140 


A DAUGHTEE OF THE SOIL 


It must be a terrible thing for her to keep it to herself 
like this.” 

“ It’s easy to say ‘ get her to tell yo’,’ ” replied Sefton 
dolefully. “ But hoo wunnot, I say, Mester Alford ; hoo’ll 
not say a word — hoo hasn’t named her husband sin’ hoo 
coom to th’ ’ouse nobbut once as hoo very near killed 
Barbara for callin’ him — summat as wasn’t altogether 
respectful. ‘How dare’ee?’ hoo says. ‘I wunnot bide 
to ’ear a word again him,’ says hoo — so theer.” 

“ Just like her ! ” murmured Henry to himself. “Well, 
Bob,” aloud, “ I am as much at a loss as you. I might per- 
haps write to my cousin, shall I ? Or would Ruth object, 
do you think? ” 

“Well, squire, theer’s no tellin’ wi’ wenches. Hoo met 
be mad wi’ me for tellin’ yo’, an’ wi’ yo’ for writin’. Hap- 
pen best to leave it. I thought yo’ might ha’ had a line 
fro’ Mester Anthony, an’ ’t ’ud ha’ set my ’eart at rest, yo’ 
know, if I could get any notion o’ what’s to do. But 
theer, it cannot be ’elped. I’ll say good-arternoon, squire, 
an’ thank ye.” 

Henry meditated long as to the possibility of taking 
some step which might bring the couple together. 
Ruth’s character and the undoubted ardor of Anthony’s 
love rendered it diflScult to guess at the motives which had 
caused them to separate — perhaps something had come to 
light regarding Anthony’s former life which had shocked 
and outraged the girl : he could not surely have broken 
faith with her since their marriage ? But let it be what it 
might the result would be the same : Ruth would break 
her heart and no one durst interfere. Did ever any one yet 
come between husband and wife without making matters 
worse ? 

His cogitations ended in a deep sigh. There was noth- 
ing to be done. 


CHAPTER XVII 


A FACE AT THE DOOR 

The weeks passed slowly, slowly ; the snow melted, and 
February rains softened and vivified the land ; there was a 
bloom upon the tree-tops, a sprinkling of swelling buds on 
the hedgerows, and the old-fashioned borders under the 
windows of the Warren Farm were gay with crocuses. 
The first early brood of downy chickens was hatched ; 
birds were singing in the yet leafless boughs of the orchard 
during the lengthening soft gray evenings ; a few lambs 
had already made their appearance. In another week or 
two spring would have actually come, and there would be 
a general awakening of all things that slumbered and 
waited still. 

As for Ruth, who shall say what those expectant days 
were for her ? To her alone they brought no hope, no 
promise, only an added intensity of life which increased 
her pain. She said to herself in all sincerity that her grief 
was ever present to her, and yet as a matter of fact she 
had frequent moments of forgetfulness, and it was the 
return of memory that brought the bitterest pang of all. 
Her existence had been so closely bound up in Anthony’s 
that there were times when their separation seemed an 
unreal, impossible thing. His name rose to her lips a hun- 
dred times a day — she would look round expecting to see 
him ; run to the door in answer to his call. “ What will 
Anthony say ? ” was her first involuntary thought on hear- 
ing or seeing any thing new ; and she continued as of old 
unconsciously to form her very impressions according to 
his standard. 


141 


142 


A DAUGHTER OF THE SOIL 


And then the ever recurring awakening : the being 
brought up short, as it were, before a wall of silence — the 
sudden forlornness, the sense of immeasurable distance, of 
absolute loss ; it was the very bitterness of death which 
came thus daily, hourly, to this girl all untutored in the 
ways of life. Sometimes the craving for Antliony’s pres- 
ence was almost unendurable ; she felt as if this hunger of 
the heart would drive her mad — there were moments when 
she would throw up her arms to heaven, feeling as though 
she could scream aloud. She had lost him — she was noth- 
ing to him, nothing, nothing ! She must not even cherish 
the memory of their love — she must, in so far as in her lay, 
banish the thought of him. The bitterness of death ? 
Better death, a thousand times ! 

One evening, after a day which had seemed unusually 
long and full of suffering — for it had been a day of beauty, 
and its freshness and brightness and sweetness had ren- 
dered Ruth’s struggles all the harder — she sat at the 
kitchen table cutting up potatoes for “ sets.” She had 
now taken her old place in the household, and worked hard 
from morning till night. Her father, coatless and boot- 
less, smoked his pipe in the chimney-corner : Barbara 
was kneading dough in the adjoining buttery by the 
light of a dip candle. The kitchen was lighted only by 
the glowing coals, for though it was “ the edge of dark ” 
no one in their senses could want a lamp to smoke by ; 
and Ruth, sitting near the window, could still see clearly 
enough in the waning daylight to manage her sets. The 
cat lay like a pincushion on one side of the hearth ; 
Sliep, the collie, who had crept in, unnoticed by his 
master, was outstretched in a shadowy corner ; the bright 
coppers on the wall winked as they caught the flickering 
flame ; the kettle sang cheerily on the hob ; every thing 
was cosey and homelike, and seemed to breathe of peace. 

Presently a step was heard on the path without, and 
Ruth started, pausing in her work. 


A FACE AT THE DOOR 


143 


‘‘ How foolish I am ! ” she said to herself with a sigh — 
“ always expecting, always fancying ! ” 

There came a tap, a somewhat hesitating tap, at the 
outer door. 

Coom in ! ” cried Farmer Sefton, rousing himself sud- 
denly from his nap — he had begun to doze over his pipe. 
“ Why, Barbara, thou’s niver bolted door ? ” 

“ I have bolted door, though — likely to, wP all they 
tramps about, an’ Luke out o’ th’ road. Ruth, see who it is, 
theer’s a good lass — my ’ands are all messed wi’ dough, an’ 
Maggie’s cleanin’ her.” 

Ruth laid down her knife and rose ; stepping quietly 
into the dark passage and drawing back the bolt. 

A man stood without in the dusk — shadowj^ unreal to 
Ruth’s bewildered eyes. He came forward quickly as her 
white face appeared in the door-way, and stretched out his 
arms. She could hear his breath coming pantingly, and he 
spoke almost with a cry. 

Ruth, Ruth, I cannot live without you ! Let me in ! ” 

She looked at him for a moment, transfixed ; and then — 
shut him out into the night, locking and bolting the door 
with feverish haste. 

“ Oh, God ! ” she breathed, falling back against the wall. 

‘‘ Who is’t, Ruth ? ” called Barbara from within. Shep 
came pattering out of the kitchen, and sniffed at the door ; 
Ruth could hear the thud, thud of his tail against the wall. 
He recognized the new-comer. 

Once again the hand without tried the latch, and the 
steps were heard again, moving away slowly, and the dog 
whined. 

‘‘ Who is it, lass ? ” asked Bob. ‘‘ What art doin’ yonder?” 

Ruth made a sudden effort to collect herself, and 
returned to the kitchen, swaying as she walked. 

“ It was — a man ! ” she said, sinking down into her chair. 

“ A tramping chap. I’ll be bound. What’s to do wi’ 
thee ? Was thou scared on him ? ” 


144 


A DAUGHTER OF THE SOIL 


His face — scared me,” said Ruth, with a catch in her 
voice. 

‘‘ Well, poor chap, he was clemmed like enough. Give 
him a lump o’ bread an’ send him packin’.” 

“ He’s gone.” 

“ What ? thou’s made sharp work on him then. Thou 
met as well ha’ gi’en him a bit o’ bread as how ’tis. See, 
call him back, poor lad. He’ll not ha’ gone so fur yet. 
It’s bad to be sat in th’ midst o’ plenty while other folks is 
famished. Give him a call, lass. Barbara, holler to him 
fro’ thy window theer.” 

‘‘ Barbara, I forbid you ! ” shrieked Ruth, starting from 
her chair. “ Let him go, I tell you, he — he must not come 
back ! ” 

“ Well, I niver ! ” ejaculated Barbara. “ What art thou 
puttin’ thysel’ i’ sich a stew for, eh ? He’ll not heyt us, 
will he ? But we’s let him go if that’s all. See, he’s prow- 
lerin’ about yonder — not up to mich good, I doubt — th’ lass 
is happen i’ th’ reet on it, gaffer.” 

“ What art thou moiderin’ about ? ” growled Bob 
sleepily ; then rousing himself a little, “ Is yon chap not 
gone yet, saysto ? What mak’ o’ chap is he — young or 
owd, or what? An Irishman happen or a gradely tramp ? ” 

“ I cannot reetly see — nobbut a dark shape wi’ a white 
face. Eh, how he ston’s lookin’ back at th’ ’ouse ! He 
could do wi’ a two-three of our hens, I reckon, if they was 
anyways handy. Theer ! now he’s movin’ off, an’ a good 
job too — he’s had a sup too mich, I doubt, he can scarce 
carry himsel’. Yon he goes staggerin’ along — heh ! heh ! 
He’s tummelt sideways agen th’ hedge. Theer ! he’s out 
o’ th’ road at last. He’s gone, Ruth, he’s gone fur good, 
dosto year ? ” 

“ Gone fur good ! ” Oh, yes ; Ruth heard, and under- 
stood. 


CHAPTER XVIII 


A REMONSTRANCE AND A PRAYER 

One does not die of sorrow, any more than one dies of 
love, and Ruth was, moreover, endowed with such perfec- 
tion of physical health and strength that no merciful 
bodily weakness came to help her by dulling her mental 
agony. Her life had to be lived though hour by hour, her 
sufferings to be endured pang by pang ; and a casual ob- 
server would have detected no outward signs of the ordeal 
through which she was passing. 

Mrs. Alford, indeed, calling to see her about three months 
after her arrival at the farm, informed her in somewhat 
scandalized tones that she looked exceedingly well ; though 
subsequently pausing, she surveyed her with a puzzled 
look. She missed something ; Ruth was changed in some 
indefinable w^ay. There were no lines in her soft oval face; 
the curves of the mouth were as tender as ever, the eyes 
as gentle ; there was as much grace and dignity as of old 
in her movements, if less elasticity. Something had gone 
from her, something had died in her, but Mrs. Alford’s 
perceptions were not sufficiently acute to enable her to 
identify it. Indeed, it would have been difficult for any 
one to realize that the girl who stood before her, in the full 
beauty and vigor of her one-and-twenty years, had lost her 
youth. 

‘‘ Sit down, Ruth, sit down,” resumed the lady with a 
gracious wave of her hand. This chair for me ? Oh, 
thank you. Never mind closing the window. How sweet 
the lilac is ! Yes, I have come to have a little chat with 

10 145 


146 


A DAUGHTER OF THE SOIL 


you, Ruth — you look very well certainly ; this place seems 
to agree with you ; but really, you know, it is not right to 
leave Anthony to his own resources for so long.” 

Ruth drew a deep breath ; the flush which had called 
forth Mrs. Alford’s encomiums faded quickly, and she 
looked up, trembling. 

“ In fact, my dear Ruth, I am going to scold you. You 
have evidently quarrelled with your husband ; left him in 
a fit of temper, I suppose. Yes, you see I draw my own 
conclusions — and it is really very wrong of you. Very 
wrong. If you desert him like that, you throw him into 
temptation — you cannot be surprised if he gets into bad 
ways. And how foolish it is, after all ! He is your hus- 
band, and whatever cause of offence he may have given 
you, your only chance of happiness lies in making the best 
of him.” 

Ruth was still silent ; there was a look in her eyes 
which Mrs. Alford did not understand. She closed her 
own, which was a habit of hers when forced to say any 
thing disagreeable. 

“ When I heard of your return to your father’s house 
I at once guessed what had occurred — of course I know 
what Anthony is, unfortunately ” — with a sigh. “ He was 
a bad boy for many years before he married you, and I sup- 
pose ” — sighing again — “ he has had another outbreak of — 
naughtiness. When I heard, therefore, that you had come 
back suddenly, I — ah — guessed. But I did not feel called 
upon to interfere. As you know,” opening her eyes for a 
moment, and then shutting them up very tight and shaking 
her head, ‘‘ I did not approve of your marriage, I con- 
sidered it foolish and unbecoming in every way. There- 
fore, I really did not feel called upon to notice your return, 
and presumed that you would speedily make up your little 
differences. But this morning I received a letter from a 
very dear friend of mine, at Monte Carlo, where it seems 
Anthony now is — and really the account she gives of him 


A EEMONSTRANCE AND A PRAYER 


147 


is such that I felt I could no longer refrain from endeavor- 
ing to bring you to a sense of your duty.” 

Mrs. Alford now opened her eyes, and sat upright. 

“ A letter ! ” said Ruth hoarsely. “ Where did you say 
Anthony was ? ” 

“ Do you mean to say you don’t even know where he is ? 
Dear, dear ! This is shocking ! He is at Monte Carlo. 
You have heard of Monte Carlo ? — the gambling place, you 
know. A dreadfully wicked place, my dear. My friend 
goes South every year for her health ; she has a villa near 
Monte Carlo, and often goes to the place itself for a few 
days at a time — for a little change, you know. The other 
day she actually met Anthony — it was a great shock to 
her, as you will hear. Dear Lady Basylford ! I hope it 
may not have been too much for her.” 

Ruth gazed at her with fascinated eyes while she pro- 
duced and unfolded the document in question (which was 
written in a fine, old-fashioned hand on foreign paper), 
and adjusted her pince-nez. 

‘‘Let me see — m’m — ‘accomplished our journey without 
much fatigue owing to the precautions of Karl, a German 
courier whom we were fortunate enough ’ — no, that’s not 
it ! ‘ My cough has been much less troublesome of late, 

but I find the cold winds after sunset very trying’ — so she 
goes on. She is exceedingly delicate, poor Lady Basyl- 
ford ! It was most kind of her to write to me, but she 
evidently thought it her duty. This page is all about her 
daughter’s engagement. Ah, here it is. ‘Apropos of 
matrimony, did I not hear some time ago that your nephew 
Anthony Clifton had married and settled down at home ? 
I was so rejoiced at the news, for I knew what a trial he 
had been to you ever since he left England. I fear, how- 
ever, that it must have been a false report. He is here 
now, and I regret to tell you, my dear friend, I hear most 
unfavorable accounts of him. He has managed to make 
himself notorious in more ways than one — I hear the most 


148 


A DAUGHTEE OF THE SOIL 


extraordinary tales of his doings — they say that at the 
tables he is like a man possessed — as for his friends — of both 
sexes — I am assured they are perfectly impossible ’ ” 

“ Does that mean that he keeps bad company ? ” asked 
Ruth, trembling. 

“ Evidently. Dear Lady Basylford purposely speaks 
lightly, but ” 

“ Lightly ! ” cried the girl, clasping her hands together. 

Do people, can people, speak lightly of such things ? ” 

Mrs. Alford peered at her over the gold rims of her 
pince-nez for a moment, and then continued : 

“‘I met him this morning on my return from a stroll. 
It was then nearly twelve o’clock, but he was in evening 
dress ; haggard, not shaved, his shirt crumpled ; he had evi- 
dently been up all night. His face looked — I can’t tell 
you what it looked like — I assure you it made me feel 
quite ill. I should never have recognized him as the nice 
gentlemanly boy I used to know long ago at Alford, had 
he not been pointed out to me. You may imagine what 
a shock it was to come across him in such a plight ! But 
as soon as I had in some degree recovered I resolved to let 
you know at once, that you may, if possible, take steps to 
bring this misguided young man to a sense of his conduct.’ ” 

The old lady now removed her eye-glasses, folded the 
letter, and restored it to her pocket ; then she looked 
severely at Ruth. 

“ Is not this a terrible state of things ? ” 

“ It is — terrible ! ” 

‘‘ I am glad you feel it at least, because — I really must 
say it frankly,” here she closed her eyes again ; ‘‘ it is all 
your fault.” 

Ruth was silent ; and Mrs. Alford, opening her eyes a 
little way, saw that her face was as white and fixed as 
marble. 

“ C7?^fortunately, my dear Ruth, I cannot think other- 
wise. You can see it for yourself. Anthony is evidently 


A REMONSTRANCE AND A PRAYER 


149 


far more reckless than before his marriage. Heretofore, 
we — his friends may have had reason to suspect that he 
was not leading a very steady life, but he never openly 
disgraced himself. Now, he evidently doesn’t care what 
he does — he is perfectly callous. I can but conjecture 
that this change is owing to your having left him. Tell me 
now, candidly, was it with his consent that you left him ? ” 

Silence. 

“ Was it ? I insist on an answer.” 

“ It was not,” said Ruth, in a low voice. 

“ Then what can you expect ? ” returned Mrs. Alford 
sharply. ‘‘ I must say I am surprised at you, Ruth. Of 
course you are young and ignorant, but still I should have 
thought your own sense would have told you that a man 
of Anthony’s character and antecedents is hound to go 
wrong if he is abandoned like that by his own wife. I 
always thought you were a good girl, but how you can 
reconcile it to your conscience deliberately to drive a man 
to evil ” 

‘‘ Oh, don’t say it ! ” cried Ruth, throwing out her arms. 
“Don’t — don’t! You don’t know what you’re saying; 
indeed you don’t ! ” 

“ Well, really,” began Mrs. Alford, rather angrily ; but 
she paused, touched at the misery in the girl’s face. “ I 
know what I am saying too well,” she went on presently, 
in gentler tones, “ but I believe — you poor unfortunate 
child ! I do believe you have not the remotest idea of 
what you are doing. I am willing to think it was more 
folly on your part than any thing else that made you take 
this rash step — and after all you may repair it yet. He 
must be saved and you must save him. You must go at 
once to him, or tell him to come back to you.” 

“ Oh, but I can’t ” 

“ Hush, hush, hush ! Don’t be a foolish girl. You must. 
Your mother would tell you so if she were alive — now you 
must listen to me as though I were your mother,” 


150 


A DAUGHTER OP THE SOIL 


She had taken Ruth’s hand and was patting it : the dif- 
ference between the lady of the Manor and Bob Sefton’s 
daughter was forgotten ; for the moment Mrs. Alford 
remembered only that Ruth was her nephew’s wife. 

‘‘My dear child, you are young and know nothing of the 
world. You think, I suppose, that you are a martyr, but 
I assure you it is very wrong and foolish of you to bear 
malice against your husband. Many wives have a great 
deal to forgive. Believe me it is best and Avisest to forgWe 
always. With all his faults I think my nephew loves you, 
Ruth. If you are generous with him, now, he will in all 
probability turn over a new leaf. Come, make the effort. 
You took him ‘ for better for worse,’ you know, after all, 
and are bound to make the best of him. Promise me that 
you will write to him to-day and tell him to come back.” 

“ I can’t,” said Ruth. “ Oh, no ! I can never see him 
again.” 

“ Then I’m afraid you are a cruel, revengeful girl ! ” cried 
the old lady, the very bow of ribbon on her hat trembling 
with her anger and agitation. “ Either you are very wicked 
or Anthony is very wicked — he must be frightfully wicked 
if you, his own wife, can’t forgive him.” 

“ I do forgive him,” began Ruth impetuously. “ I — he — 
oh, don’t blame him ! ” 

For a moment she was almost tempted to tell the truth ; 
she could not bear him to be condemned — he thought him- 
self justified in his action with regard to her ; he was not 
capable of seeing it in its true light. But who, besides 
herself, would make allowances for him — Avould pity his 
blindness and pause before condemning him ? Not his 
aunt certainly ; and then his secret : should she be the one 
to betray it ? Ruth closed her lips resolutely : better 
that she should endure than that he should be dishonored. 

“ I certainly will blame him,” cried Mrs. Alford indig- 
nantly, “and I blame you too. You are both equally 
bad — that’s what I think ! He is disgracing himself and 


A REMONSTRANCE AND A PRAYER 


151 


disgracing the family, and you — the only one who could 
prevent it — won’t. Just because you won’t humble your- 
self before him.” 

“ God knows,” said Ruth brokenly, ‘‘ how gladly I would 
humble myself for him — to the very dust. I can’t help 
it if you don’t believe me. I must submit. I cannot see 
Anthony again, but I would give my heart’s blood to save 
him. Can nothing be done ? Oh ! ” she cried, wringing 
her hands, “ can nothing be done ? Could not the squire 
go to him ? — they used to be like brothers once. He could 
influence him perhaps. Oh, do ask him — do, I beg of 
you ! ” 

“ My dear Ruth,” said the old lady, turning very pink, 
“ I think you must be a little crazy. Really, it is the most 
charitable assumption I can make. You won’t move a 
Anger in aid of your husband ; you persist in neglecting 
your obvious duty, and you expect my son to follow him 
into his — his haunts ” — with terrible emphasis — “ to be 
laughed at for his pains. Do you suppose Anthony would 
pay any attention to him ? No, indeed — as he has found 
out too often before. I certainly will not ask Mr. Alford 
to undertake such a journey on such an errand. There is 
no use in arguing the matter any more, I suppose,” ris- 
ing. “ Good-by. I only hope God will touch your heart.” 

“ He sees my heart,” cried Ruth, with sudden passion. 
“ God is merciful — more merciful than man. He knows ! 
Oh, my God ! you know ! ” 

Mrs. Alford turned at the door, moved, startled by this 
sudden outburst ; but Ruth had sunk on her knees by the 
table, burying her face in her hands. 

She knelt there long after the old lady had left her, 
utterly crushed at first by her misery; Anthony had thrown 
himself into evil courses — he was going, as he warned her, 
to perdition, and she was powerless to save him. What 
was her own wretchedness, her loneliness, her agony of 
loss, in comparison with such a calamity as this ! 


152 


A DAUGHTER OF THE SOIL 


It was characteristic of the girl, of the largeness and 
generosity of her nature, that Anthony’s treatment of her 
had caused her to feel for him neither indignation nor con- 
tempt. Her love was so great that it had stood even the 
crucial test of the knowledge of his deceit. She had taken 
him at his own valuation, accepted with entire simplicity 
his explanation of his conduct : too upright and truthful 
herself to be persuaded into wrong-doing, she was never- 
theless willing to believe that he was convinced of the 
justice of his point of view. The incoherent account he 
had given her of his former mode of life had impressed her 
vaguely; it grieved her to hear him say he had been wild 
and wicked, but she could compassionate, and to a certain 
extent excuse him. Her own vivid faith entered so largely 
into her life that she could conceive it easy for any one to 
fall who had no religion to guide and sustain him. Then 
his passionate, impulsive nature, the torturing sense of dis- 
grace — poor Anthony ! it had doubtless been hard for him 
to keep straight. 

But now, with what full deliberation he seemed to turn 
to evil ; with what recklessness of consequences, what 
impious determination of sin ; as it were, for the sake of 
sinning ! Ignorant though Ruth was of the ways of the 
world, and understanding but imperfectly Lady Basylford’s 
letter, the picture that lady had drawn of Anthony never- 
theless filled her with horror ; it was vividly present to 
her now. She could see him walking along, shameless, in 
the glaring southern sunshine, with his disordered dress, 
his unshaven face — oh, that handsome face, which could 
look so bright and so tender ! A rush of tears came to her 
eyes ; her heart yearned over him with passionate longing 
and sorrow. Oh, to save him from his degradation — to 
save him ! 

Presently she raised her head and threw out her arms. 

‘‘ My God ! you are there, and you hear me ! You will 
give me strength. I will bear — what you will. I will not 


A REMONSTRANCE AND A PRAYER 


153 


complain. But you must save him. You made him, you 
can save him, you must save liim. Lord ! ” 

The very extremity of her anguish gave her a sudden 
inexplicable sense of spiritual exaltation. She felt, as it 
were, in touch with the supernatural, free to make terms 
with her Creator ; it was as though she had caught and 
clasped his chastening hand. 

“ You owe me his soul, Lord,” she murmured pantingly. 
“ I will submit. I will suffer whatever you see fit. But I 
must have his soul — I will have his soul. You know, my 
God, I only want it for you — you will save him ! ” 

When Barbara looked in a little later, she found her 
young mistress still on her knees ; her face was very pale, 
and her eyes wet, but she greeted the old woman with a 
tremulous smile. 


CHAPTER XIX 


THE CLAIMANT 

Summer came and went, a summer wet and dreary 
enough to suit Ruth’s mind ; the long, bright days with 
their cruel memories would have been too hard to bear. 
She liked better to stay indoors, busy, very busy, while the 
rain dripped without, and the wet leaves beat against the 
open casement, and the sweet, rich odor of damp soil floated 
through the house. Outside were only gray cloud-heaped 
skies, wet grasses, slippery paths ; it was better so. Some- 
times, late in the day, sheer bodily craving for air and 
exercise forced her out-of-doors ; but when the sunset sud- 
denly flamed in the west, driving the heavy clouds apart 
or building fairy palaces amid their gold and purple splen- 
dors ; when evanescent peace and beauty fell upon the 
storm-vexed world, and the rustling leaves and moist 
grasses glittered in the passing glory ; when through the 
stillness sounded faintly sweet the voices of the evening — 
children’s laughter a long way off, lowing of cattle, bleat- 
ing of sheep, the trickle of water, the calls of birds, then 
Ruth would come flying homeward to the ingle-nook, and 
ply her needle feverishly; glad when the lamp was lit and 
the beauty of the night shut out. 

Then came autumn days, and all the land was golden as 
on the October morning, two years before, that Ruth had 
walked back from Brooklands Chapel with Anthony beside 
her, and the wedding-ring on her finger. Autumn was 
bright and brief that year, and winter came early ; drag- 
ging its weary length away amid snow and fog and usher- 
ing in the latest and most inclement of springs. 

154 


THE CLAIMANT 


155 


One cold, boisterous March afternoon when Farmer Sefton 
and Luke were busy afield — Maggie having taken their 
“ baggin’ ” to them, Ruth sat listlessly by the fire, her 
hands idle for once, her eyes looking sadly into the embers. 

She heard a knock presently at the outer door, and 
Barbara, with muttered grumblings, leave her work in the 
back kitchen, and proceed slowly along the passage. 

“It ’ll be Tommy Birch’s Joe, come fur th’ milk. If 
ever I’ve my hands full that lad ’ll coom moiderin’ me.” 

But apparently it was not Tommy Birch’s Joe, for a 
parley ensued. 

“ What’s thot yo’re sayin’ ? Ah, our mester has a da’ter, 
an’ hoo do live ’ere. Mistress Clifton, ye mean ? Ah, 
hoo’s here reet enough. What dun yo’ want wi’ her ? ” 

Then a voice which Ruth recognized too well : 

“ Oh, she calls herself Mrs. Clifton, does she ? ” 

“ Hoo ca’s hersel’ by her name. Hoo is Mistress Clifton. 
What met yo’ be wantin’ of her ? ” 

“ I’ll tell her when I see her. Let me in, I tell you. It 
is freezing here.” 

“ Let her in, Barbara,” cried Ruth, suddenly rising and 
going to the door. 

There stood the woman — Anthony’s wife. 

She pushed past Barbara and Ruth, and made straight 
for the inner room, uttering an exclamation of delight as 
she caught sight of the fire. 

“ How warm you are here ! ” she cried. “ How nice and 
warm ! ” 

She was on her knees in a moment on the hearthstone, 
stretching out her hands to the blaze. 

“ Eh ! ” said Barbara. “ Mak’ yo’rsel’ comfortable, do. 
Well, Ruth, hoo met’s weel set as kneel, doesn’t thou 
think ? Has thou niver a cheer for her, an’ what’s getten 
thy toongue, lass? Yon’s a friend o’ thine, isn’t hoo ? ” 

“ I think you had better go upstairs,” said Ruth, speak- 
ing in a loud, hard voice, and addressing her visitor. “ My 


156 


A DAUGHTER OF THE SOIL 


father will be coming back from his work presently ; he 
always sits in this room. Will you come up with me ? ” 

“ The parlor, lass ! the parlor ! ” suggested Barbara, in 
a scandalized whisper. “Eh, whatever art thou thinkin’ 
on ? Th’ fire’s laid an’ all. I’ll put a leet t’it in a minute.” 

“ No, I think we’d better go upstairs. Will you come ? 
Quick, please.” 

“Mrs. Hartop” obeyed the imperative summons, and 
Ruth breathed more freely when she had ushered her up 
the narrow stairs. She could not brook the idea of her 
father meeting this woman, hearing her, perhaps, revile 
Anthony. No, she must say her say, whatever it was, to 
Ruth alone ; let the farm-folks wonder and grumble as 
much as the}'' liked, they should know nothing. 

Mrs. Hartop followed her guide into the little bedroom 
where Ruth could alone count on absolute privacy ; a 
narrow little room, carpetless save for a rug beside the bed 
and another by the hearth, papered with a plain old- 
fashioned paper, the window and bed curtained with white 
dimity. Plain, severe, and bare as it was, it was neverthe- 
less suited to Ruth. Its simplicity, its spotless cleanliness, 
were characteristic of her ; and the flowers on the chimney- 
piece and in the window-seat, and the little altar in a corner, 
with its crucifix and statue of the Blessed Virgin, were 
further tokens of her presence. 

But the visitor looked round in disgust : the grate was 
fireless ; there was not even an easy chair. 

“ Ugh ! no fire ! ” she said with a shiver. 

“ I will light one in a minute,” said Ruth, quickly closing 
the window; then, kneeling by the grate, she put a lighted 
match to the twigs and shavings within. 

The other watched her, shuddering with cold ; and after 
a moment, with an impetuous movement, tore off a blanket 
from the bed, and, wrapping it round her, sat down on the 
couch she had thus disordered. 

“ I’m not going to be frozen ! ” she said defiantly. 


THE CLAIMANT 


157 


Ruth looked up for a moment in astonishment, but went 
on with her task in silence. Mrs. Hartop watched the 
shapely hands deftly busying themselves, and presently 
broke into a laugh as she caught sight of the ring gleam- 
ing on the third finger of the left one. 

“ You wear a wedding-ring still, I see,” she said, “ and 
call yourself Mrs. Clifton — though you did go off in such 
a virtuous tantrum, and make Anthony so mad with me. 
You’re not above pretending to be what you’re not, and 
wearing a ring you’ve no right to. Aha ! tliere was noth- 
ing too bad for me, was there ? What was it he called 
me ? ‘ The vilest of the vile ! ’ but all the same I’m the 
wife. I’m entitled to wear his ring and call myself by his 
name. You aren’t. You said I was an impostor, didn’t 
you ? Who’s the impostor now, I should like to know, 
Mrs. Clifton.^'* 

Ruth did not reply for a moment ; the taunt stung her 
to the quick. It was true — that was the worst of it. She 
had no right, no shadow of a right, to call herself by 
Anthony’s name, to wear his ring on her finger. She had 
clung to these outward symbols of a union which did not 
exist, to save herself and him from needless dishonor — but 
the woman was riglit in saying she was an impostor. 

‘‘ Have you come here to tell me this ? ” she cried, rising 
after a pause, and looking at her visitor. 

“Ho, I haven’t. I’m very glad, to tell you the truth. 
If you’d let people get wind of the story, it would have 
been all up with me. I haven’t said one word about it to 
any one — not a living soul except yourself. I wish you’d 
tell Anthony so. He’s been awfully mean to me. He’s 
treated me shamefully ! Couldn’t you put in a word for 
me with him ? He thinks a lot of you — he’d do any thing 
for you, I’m sure. And after all I think you’re bound in 
common justice to do sometliing for me. If it hadn’t been 
for you he wouldn’t have turned on me like this.” 

“ What do you mean ? What do you want ? ” asked 


158 


A DAUGHTER OF THE SOIL 


Ruth shrinkingly. She could not bear to hear this woman 
pronounce Anthony’s name, much less to discuss her own 
circumstances with her ; but she must put an end at once 
to the preposterous idea of her interfering between him 
and — his wife. ‘‘I have left Anthony Clifton, as you 
know,” she added more firmly. “We do not correspond. 
I do not even know where he is.” 

“You’re just as spiteful as he is!” cried the visitor. 
“ It’s a plot — you both want me to starve ! Oh, it’s — it’s 
infamous ! ” She broke off suddenly, and to Ruth’s sur- 
prise and distress burst into tears. 

“Of all the mean, dirty tricks !” she sobbed. “The 
shabbiness of it ! He leaves me to starve — and I am his 
wife, I am — but because you leave him he vents his spite 
on me ! He wants to kill me — to get me out of his way so 
that he can have you back.” 

The tears poured down her miserable painted face. 
Ruth saw that she looked ill and haggard, and was much 
thinner than when she had come to Friarsleigh. It struck 
her too that she looked older — ten years older, quite an 
elderly woman in fact. 

“ This beastly English climate is killing me,” she said ; 
“but what do you care — what does any one care? As for 
Anthony, the sooner I’m choked off the better pleased 
he’ll be. But I’ll live — I’ll live to spite him, if it’s in the 
workhouse ! ” 

“I don’t understand,” said Ruth, struggling with 
mingled feelings of repulsion and pity. “ Why do you 
not go back where you came from ? Why are things 
worse for you now than before?” 

“ Why ? Because that mean villain has stopped my 
allowance ! He told me I’d rue it, if you remember, and 
he’s keeping his word. Not one sixpence can I get hold 
of since that unlucky day when I hunted you up. He has 
taken his business away from the man who used to pay 
me — and I can’t even find out his address. My money’s 


THE CLAIMANT 


159 


all gone, and I don’t know which way to turn ” — begin- 
ning to sob again. ‘‘I’ve sold my jewelry — I’ve even 
pawned some of my clothes : I have hardly a rag left. 
Oh, dear ! oh, dear ! What shall I do, what shall I do ! ” 

She threw herself sideways on the bed, burying her face 
in the pillow and weeping convulsively. It was the very 
lowest form of human wretchedness, no doubt — this selfish, 
cowardly dread of bodily privation and discomfort ; but 
Ruth watched her with profound and shocked compassion. 
How sordid it was, how revolting, how terrible ! And 
Anthony — how could he, how could he have stooped to 
this? Her very ‘soul shook with passionate regret and 
shame. Of course she could conceive that Anthony had 
had no thought beyond the mad fury of the moment, when 
he had decided on cutting the last tie which connected 
him with the woman who had twice wrecked his happi- 
ness. He would be done with her — he would cast her off 
forever ; he did not foresee the misery that would ensue. 
He did not know — he could not tliink it would lead to 
this ; actual want, broken health, physical distress of 
every kind. But it was wrong — oh, it was wrong ! He 
should have known, he was bound to think of the fate to 
which he was condemning this miserable creature. After 
all, she had a claim on him which he ought not in justice 
to disregard. 

There was a long silence. Mrs. Hartop gradually grew 
calmer, and at last turned her face a little sideways on the 
pillow, and heaved a long sigh of exhaustion. 

“ What a nice, comfortable little bed this is ! ” she 
observed involuntarily. “ I’m tired to death — I should 
like to go to sleep here. The bed at my lodgings is dis- 
gustingly hard and lumpy. However, I suppose I may 
consider myself lucky if I’m not chucked out into the 
street.” 

She took up a corner of the sheet, and pressed it to her 
hot face. “ Nice, fine sheets — too good for a farm. White 


160 


A DAUGHTER OF THE SOIL 


and soft and cold like the snow that day at Friarsleigh. 
Do you remember ? ” 

Remember ! Ruth could still feel the chill ; could see 
the blinding whiteness as she sank into it with that bewil- 
dering, sickening anguish. 

“ White and soft and cold ! ” repeated the woman 
vaguely, stroking the sheet ; like the snow — or like 
yourself. When I saw you that day I thought I had 
never seen such a piece of whiteness.” 

“ Not cold, though,” said Ruth half to herself. “ God 
help me — not cold ! ” 

“You had a white dress on, too,” continued the other, 
without noticing. “ Awfully prettily made,” she went on 
with more animation ; “ the sleeves were lovely. I think 
that put my back up more than any thing, to see you 
cocked up there with every luxury while I was kept so 
tight. I say,” suddenly sitting up, “you must have lots 
of things that are no use to you here. I wish you’d give 
me some.” 

Ruth was so much taken aback by the cynicism of this 
request that it was a little time before she replied : 

“ There is nothing of mine that you would care to have. 
I did not take any thing away from Friarsleigh.” 

“ Well, you must be a softy ! Vd have taken all I 
could lay hold of — I’m sure I should. I’d have got all I 
could out of Anthony. After all, he treated you shame- 
fully too, didn’t he ? It’s worse for me than for you, 
though ; you’ve got a home anyhow, and a father. I’ve 
nothing — and no one ! ” 

She began to whimper again. “He’s a brute — that’s 
what he is. Oh, what is to become of me ! (JanH you 
help me ? Don’t you really know where he is ? ” 

Rutlr shook her head. 

“ Then I can’t think what I shall do,” went on the other 
desperately. “ You were my last chance. I’ve been up to 
Alford Hall, and I saw Anthony’s cousin and an old woman 


THE CLAIMANT 


161 


— his aunt, I suppose — but they either couldn’t or wouldn’t 
tell me any thing. I didn’t let them know who I was, of 
course— I knew my only chance with Anthony was to keep 
his secret ; but you should have seen how they looked at 
me, particularly the old lady ! Then I thought I’d come 
to you — I thought I’d get you to tell Anthony that if he’d 
only pay my fare back to India, and give me ever so little, 
just to keep me going, I’d never trouble him again. You 
two might make it up — I mean it — honor bright ! ” 

Ruth did not answer, and Mrs. Hartop slowly got oif 
the bed. 

‘‘ I suppose there’s no use in my staying. Haven’t you 
got any thing that would do for me ? Couldn’t you even 
spare a warm skirt and some linen ? I’ve hardly any 
thing to put on.” 

Ruth crimsoned with fierce shame — shame for herself and 
the womanhood shared with this wretched creature, who 
saw no indecency in thus begging from her ; shame, far 
more bitter, for Anthony who had brought her to this 
pass. She hastily opened her cupboard and began to hunt 
among her store for such garments as would be likely to 
meet Mrs. Hartop’s requirements. The other watched her 
eagerly ; but with gathering discontent. 

“ They won’t be much use to me if I am turned into the 
street, will they ? ” she said presently. “ I wonder — could 
you lend me a little money ? My landlady is clamoring 
for her bill, and what to do I don’t know. You might let 
me have some — you have every thing you want.” 

Ruth took out her purse : it contained but a few shillings. 

“ This is all I have,” she said. ‘‘ I have to ask my 
father for any thing I am in need of. I have nothing of 
my own.” 

The woman came forward eagerly. ‘‘ Oh, do ask him 
for something for me ! ” she cried. “ Even a fiver would 
carry me on for a little while. Is he in yet ? Ask him, 
do. I’ll wait here till you come back.” 

11 


162 


A DAUGHTER OF THE SOIL 


“No,” said Ruth sternly. “ That I will not do.” 

The peevish weeping began once more, mingled with 
weak, broken railings against Ruth, against fate, against 
Anthony, chiefly against Anthony. His shabbiness, his 
meanness, his cruelty — all the old litany over again : it 
almost drove the listener mad. And this impotent anger 
was not altogether uncalled for — this thought was the 
most terrible of all. There was a certain justice — a foun- 
dation of truth in these complaints. Ruth could not endure 
it — she must do something to wipe out this slur on his 
name. The woman whom he had married — and cast off — 
must not starve. But what could she do ? She would not 
ask her father for money for such a purpose, and she had 
none of her own, no valuables — for she had brought with 
her from Friarsleigh none of Anthony’s gifts save the 
little gold crucifix. Then a sudden thought struck her ; 
one costly trinket was hers to dispose of as she wished. 
The ring — the diamond ring which Henry had given her. 

She took it from the little case where it had lain ensconced 
almost ever since she had received it, and turned quickly 
round. 

“ See, you can have this. I will give you this. You 
can get a good deal of money if you sell it.” 

Mrs. Hartop looked in amazement at the flashing stones, 
and the glowing face above them. 

“ Are they real f ” she asked, in tones tremulous with 
astonishment and a kind of awe. 

“ Yes. They are diamonds and very valuable, I believe. 
You can sell the ring.” 

“You are giving it to me !” she said in amazement. 
“ Oh, what a beauty ! I never saw such a beauty ! ” 

She slipped it on her finger, turning it about, and watch- 
ing the sparkle of the gems. 

“ Don’t I wish I could keep it ! I never had one like 
that in my palmiest days. If Anthony hadn’t been so 
shabby I needn’t have sold it,” she pursued inconsequently, 


THE CLAIMANT 


163 


“ but ” — with a regretful sigh — “ it will keep me going for 
a long time. It’s awfully good of you — it really is ” — look- 
ing up in a flutter of exultation and pleasure. “ You must 
be a good sort ! I wish I’d never interfered with you — on 
your account as well as mine. I do indeed.” 

There was real gratitude in her face, but Ruth, sick at 
heart, had averted her eyes. How little she had thought — 
when Henry had given her this ring, and Anthony had 
rallied her on her ignorance of its value, and she had refused 
to wear it on her “ wedding Anger ” — of the use to which 
it would be put. 

“ Well, I’d better go ! ” observed Mrs. Hartop. ‘‘ Is 
that my bundle ? I’ll carry it under my cloak. You’ve 
been awfully good to me, really. Good-by.” 

Ruth piloted her down stairs again, and out of the house, 
and across the yard, drawing a long breath of relief when 
she was out of sight. 


CHAPTER XX 


A TOKEN 

The dull blankness of Ruth’s life was undisturbed for 
the next five or six months. The inhabitants of the farm 
had grown used to her presence among them, and almost 
ceased to expect that she would ever leave them again ; the 
neighbors had long ago settled among themselves that Ruth 
didn’t get on so very well wi’ th’ gentry-folk, adding 
darkly that every one knowed what mak’. o’ chap Mester 
Anthony were, an’ ’twasn’t to be expected as the match ’ud 
turn out well. It was not — no, indeed ; an’ happen t’ud ha’ 
bin better for Robert Sefton if he hadn’t have had sich 
notions about th’ lass, sendin’ her to a nuns’ school an’ that, 
an’ bringin’ her up to look so high. But, eh well ! poor 
lass, when all was said an’ done she took it very well, she 
raly did. Never no grumblin’s — an’ Maggie, yonder, said 
she was agate o’ workin’ same as if she’d never left th’ 
place. So by common consent — though the good folks 
shook their heads commiseratingly when they met Ruth, 
and looked incredulous and sympathetic when, in reply to 
their enquiries as to how she found hersel’, she averred 
that she was well — they did not bother her with questions, 
or make unpleasant remarks in their usual straightforward 
fashion, on the subject of Anthony Clifton. Except, 
indeed, for the ineradicable pain in her own heart, the 
memories and longings constantly demanding to be 
struggled with and crushed, her union with him, the brief 
sweet days of their life together, might have seemed to her 
a dream. 

One morning, however, — one memorable morning, — the 

164 


A TOKEN 


165 


postman brought a registered packet to Ruth. It was 
directed in a strange hand, and bore a foreign post-mark. 

She stood still in the yard where she had taken it from 
the man’s hand ; the August sunshine pouring down on 
her uncovered head, while she turned the packet over and 
over, unable to muster up courage to open it. What could 
it contain ? 

At last she broke the seal. There was a letter inside, 
and, folded within, a small object in a separate wrapper. 
Ruth, with trembling fingers, uncovered it : it was a wed- 
ding-ring. 

She looked at it, fascinated, as it glittered in the sun- 
shine. Then she turned to the end of the letter : the 
signature was unknown to her. Finally, after a furtive 
glance round, to make sure of being undisturbed, she be- 
gan to read it. It was from the captain of a sailing- 
vessel, in which Mrs. Hartop had some time before taken 
passage to Calcutta, and it said — that she was dead. 

The shock, the surprise of the tidings, the momentary 
horror which Ruth felt at this unexpected end, were 
speedily lost in a transport of joy. A tide of joy so great, 
so overmastering that it burst all bonds, swept away all 
barriers. Anthony was hers again ; she might love him 
now — she might return to him ! Oh, she was glad ! she 
was glad ! With every fibre of her being she rejoiced. 
Was it really true, though — was it quite certain there was 
no mistake ? 

The paper fluttered in her fingers as she read it once 
more. 

The writer told her that Mrs. Hartop appeared to be in an 
exhausted state even when she had first come on board ; the 
doctor had subsequently discovered that she was suffering 
from advanced heart-disease. The violent sea-sickness 
resulting from a spell of stormy weather had caused her 
malady to make fatal strides, and she had died, after a few 
days’ illness, and been buried at sea. Her last request had 


166 


A DAUGHTEE OF THE SOIL 


been that Mrs. Clifton (whose address she gave) might be 
informed of her death ; and that her wedding-ring might be 
forwarded to her. 

“ Tell her,” she had said, ‘‘ I send her a ring in exchange 
for the one she gave me when I was starving. She helped 
me when every one else cast me off ; tell her I want to do 
her a good turn now.” 

That was all. A great sob rose in Ruth’s throat. 

“Oh, poor creature ! How wicked I am to be glad ! 
Oh, my God, forgive me — and have pity on her ! ” 

She went indoors, shocked and sobered, a great awe and 
compassion mingling with her deep, unquenchable joy. She 
was to be happy, her long trial was over at last ; but that 
other poor woman had died forlornly and miserably as she 
had lived ; gone with all her sins upon her before the judg- 
ment-seat of her Creator. 

Nevertheless — the human in Ruth asserted itself strongly 
this morning — in a few minutes her intense personal happi- 
ness carried all before it. To be able to think of Anthony 
without fear or scruple, to allow free scope to the great 
love which she had tried so hard to stifle ; to feel young, 
hopeful, happy, again, how strange it was ! how exquisite ! 
Then the thought struck her all at once ; there was noth- 
ing to prevent her seeing him now ; she might go to him 
any moment — here, in the hollow of her own soft hand, she 
held that which had kept them apart. Soon, in a few days, 
she would be his wife again, really his wife, to part from 
him no more. Oh, what compensation she would make to 
him for the suffering she had been obliged to cause him ! 
She would soon show him now that it was not from want 
of love she had left him : she would prove to him once 
more that she trusted him with her whole heart, that she 
was ready to place her life in his keeping. As for his 
doings during their separation, here a shade crossed her 
face for a moment, there should be no enquiries, no confes- 
sion ; all should be wiped out, and forgotten. When she 


A TOKEN 


167 


and Anthony were together again he would return to his 
better self ; and she would love him so much and make 
him so happy that in time — in God’s own good time — her 
prayer would be granted, and they would kneel side by 
side and worship at the same altar. 

But while she stood dreaming thus, time was passing, 
and she must find out where Anthony was that she might 
set off at once to join him. Who could give her his 
address ? Mr. Alford, perhaps. At all events he would 
advise her. 

To Alford Hall, therefore, Ruth betook herself after a 
hasty toilet ; walking hurriedly, and astonishing Henry, 
when she was ushered into his study, by her flushed cheeks 
and excited air. But there was no mistaking the look of 
radiant joy on her face. 

“ Mr. Alford,” she said eagerly, even before he had loosed 
her hand. “ I have come to you for help and advice. I 
want to find Anthony ; I am going back to him.” 

Henry was too much taken by surprise to speak for a 
moment or two, but presently he said gravely : 

“ I am very glad, Ruth, since it makes you happy.” 

Oh, I am happy — more happy perhaps than I ought to 
be. Yes, I am free to go back to Anthony at last. There 
was something between us, and now it is gone. It is his 
secret, so I cannot explain more fully. And I — I want to 
go to him as quickly as I can, but I don’t know where he 
is. Can you tell me ? ” 

‘‘ I am sorry to say I do not know his address, but I 
could perhaps find out. I could write to his agent ; he 
must communicate with him, I suppose.” 

“ Write?” interrupted Ruth. “ Couldn’t you — couldn’t 
you telegraph ? I want to set off at once.” 

Henry did not reply immediately. He left his seat 
and began to pace up and down the room, pausing at last 
before her. 

“ I will telegraph if you wish, and let you know the 


168 


A DAUGHTER OF THE SOIL 


result at once. But I think — it would be better for you to 
write to Anthony, just to announce your intention of 
returning to him. It might not be wise to take him by 
surprise.” 

“ Oh, but I can’t wait ! ” she cried, almost petulantly. 
“ It is so long since I have seen him ; nearly two years ! 
I — I couldn’t wait.” 

“Well, I will telegraph, and send the answer on to you 
immediately. Now, Ruth, try to calm yourself a little. 
Things may not go quite smoothly all at once ; you must 
be prepared ” — he paused hesitatingly. “ I do not like to 
dash your hopes. Heaven knows, but still, the last accounts 
of Anthony caused us a great deal of anxiety.” 

“ Oh, yes, I know ; I will not try to defend him. I know 
there was no excuse for him — but — when we are together 
again things will be different.” 

She paused, then seeing the doubt and trouble in Henry’s 
face, broke out vehemently : 

“ You think badly of him ? but you do not know him ; 
you cannot judge him. Only I know him at his best. I 
know what he could be, if he chose.” 

Henry looked at her for a moment, and then said with a 
certain irritation : 

“ Perhaps I do know only the worst side of him. But 
still some things cannot be condoned. I don’t know how 
you can love him as you do — trust yourself with him again 
after — what we have heard.” 

“ It makes no difference to my love,” cried Ruth, with 
flashing eyes. “ I can grieve — I can suffer — but I cannot 
leave off loving him because he has done wrong — and I do 
trust him, in spite of every thing. That is one reason 
why I want to go to him myself — not to wait to write. 
When I — when we parted — he said I did not love him nor 
trust him. I want to show him that I do ! ” 

It was all incomprehensible to Henry : but there was no 
gainsaying her. With a sigh he returned to his table and 


A TOKEN 


169 


wrote out tbe telegram. “ I will bring the answer to you 
myself,” he said, when he had finished and shown it to her. 

“ And meanwhile I can be packing,” returned Ruth, 
smiling as she rose. When she left the room Henry sighed 
more deeply than before ; and then, ringing, despatched a 
servant with his message. 

Two hours later he appeared at the Warren Farm with 
the answer : Ruth was standing at the gate watching for 
him. 

This was the reply : 

“ Last address given : Poste Restante, Spa, Belgium.” 

“ It will not take long to get there, will it ? ” asked Ruth 
eagerly. It’s not. very far. If I started to-night, how 
soon could I be there ? ” 

“ There will be no use in starting before to-morrow 
morning,” said Henry. “ See — I have made out your jour- 
ney for you ” — showing her certain calculations on the back 
of the telegram. Now, I have a proposal to make. If 
you are bent on going, let me accompany you. You cannot 
undertake such a journey alone — and then I could make 
enquiries for you at Spa, and arrange a meeting for you 
with Anthony. ‘ Poste Restante ’ is a vague address. If 
he has left, I could find out where he has gone. I am old 
enough to be your father, you know, and being Anthony’s 
cousin I am yours too.” 

Ruth paid no heed to the little niceties by which Henry 
sought to gloss over the unusualness of his proposal. She 
was deeply grateful and much relieved : in spite of her 
eagerness and determination she had felt bewildered and 
full of a thousand fears and qualms. Now this kind, grave 
squire, Anthony’s cousin and her friend, had volunteered to 
be her escort and protector during her journey ; he would 
take care of her like a father, smooth away all diflSculties, 
only leave her when she and Anthony were reunited. Her 
eyes thanked him even more than her words. In her grati- 
tude she had a momentary impulse to give him her full 


IVO A DAUGHTER OF THE SOIL 

confidence : to divulge the nature of the olistacle which 
had kept her and her beloved apart. But she checked her- 
self. Henry might judge Anthony more harshly than he 
deserved, and besides — Ruth in her own way was very 
proud. Why should he or any one know the misfortune 
and disgrace which had befallen her in the past ? 

It was arranged that they should start early on the fol- 
lowing morning, meeting at the station. Ruth agreed to 
write to Anthony at the Spa post-office to announce her 
coming, on the chance of the letter reaching him before 
their arrival. 

‘‘ He will perhaps meet us at the station,” said Henry : 
he felt a little more at ease now that Ruth had accepted 
of his comjjanionship. Whatever happened, he would at 
least be at hand to guide and shield her. But when she 
smiled he averted his eyes ; her joyful confidence troubled 
him. 

After he had left her she sat down to write to Anthony — 
a short letter, written with shaking fingers, and blurred 
with happy tears. Her heart beat fast as she directed it, 
picturing to herself his surprise and delight, as he recognized 
her writing ; then, hearing her father’s voice, she ran down 
to him with her letter in her hand. 

“ Read that,” she said, placing the sealed envelope in his 
palm, and pointing to the superscription. Bob spelled it 
out slowly, and turning round, stared hard at Ruth. 

“ Eh, lass ! ” he exclaimed. “ Thou’s — thou’s wrote to 
him, has thou ? Well, an’ art thou thinkin’ o’ gettin’ good 
friends wi’ him again ? ” 

“ I’m going to him ! ” cried Ruth, and stooping over her 
father’s chair, she kissed him. ‘‘All is right between us at 
last, father, and I’m going back to him.” 

“ Well, I think thou’d do better to bide where thou art, 
then,” retorted Bob, getting very red and frowning. “ I’ve 
niver axed no questions, but I reckon he’s used thee ill, my 
wench. Why, he’s never so much as sent ’ee a line sin’ 


A TOKEN 


171 


thou’s bin here, an’ he’s ne’er coora to look for ’ee nor sent 
’ee a bit o’ brass to put i’ thy pocket. I diinnot think so 
mich on him — I dunnot trewly. Bide wi’ thy feyther, 
Ruth ; it ’ll be best for thee. It will that. Thou’s had 
enough o’ husban’s, an’ gentry’s careless ways, I doubt. 
Nay, nay ! Bide wi’ feyther, lass.” 

Ruth, with gentle words and caresses, sought to win him 
to her way of thinking, and finally broke it to him that it 
was on the very morrow she was leaving. 

Farmer Sef ton’s indignation was so great that it actually 
deprived him of words ; and when Barbara brought in the 
evening meal, she found Ruth almost tearfully cajoling 
him, while the gaffer, with one elbow raised to keep her 
off, and jerking his head back out of reach whenever she 
tried to embrace him, was responding with the surliest of 
grunts to her attempted endearments. 

“ What’s to do here ? ” enquired Barbara peremptorily. 

“ Eh, nought to speak on,” replied Bob, pushing his 
chair back a little further, and looking fiercely sarcastic. 
“ Mistress Clifton ’ere’s fur startin’ for furrin’ parts 
to’morn, that’s all. Hoo fancies hoo’d like another turn 
wi’ A^m, yonder.” 

“ Who ? ” asked Barbara. “ What are ye talking 
about ? ” 

« Why, who dost thou think ? Who were it as took our 
lass off us afore, an’ abused her, an’ packed her off whoam 
wi’ her heart broke ? ” 

‘‘ Eh ! ” cried Barbara, clapping her hands. “ Hoo’s 
never thinkin’ o’ takkin’ up wi’ Mester Anthony again, 
sure ? ” 

“ Who else ? He’s bin a gradely ’usban’, thou knows. 
Took sich a dale o’ thought fur her, didn’t he ? Dom th’ 
raskil ! ejaculated Bob, hammering at the table. “Hoo 
met ha’ bin dead an’ buried fur owt he cared.” 

“An’ he’s cornin’ back, is he?” masked the old woman, 
looking in amazement from one to the other. 


172 


A DAUGHTER OF THE SOIL 


“ Nay, but our Ruth’s set on trapesing off to him. 
Theer ! What dost think o’ that ? ” 

‘‘ Eh, thou never says, Ruth ! Thou couldna do’t. 
Thou’lt niver be sich a noddy. However has thou gotten 
sich a notion i’ thy yead ? Thou doesn’t mean it, sure. 
An’ to-morrow ! ” 

“ Yes, to-morrow. Mr. Alford is going to take me,” said 
Ruth. “ Oh, father, don’t be angry ! Don’t let him be 
angry, Barbara. He’s been so good to me ! ” 

Bob snorted. 

“ Ah, thou thinks a dale o’ that now, doesn’t thou ? Let 
her be, Barbara. If hoo wants to go — hoo will go. Dun- 
not trouble thysel’ about thy feyther, lass. We’re none so 
ill fur a pinch when thou’s in a bit o’ trouble, but at arter 
it’s o’er, thou can turn thy back on us. When yon wastril 
gives thee the sack again, thou’lt happen be glad thou’s 
gotten folks o’ thy own. Well — how long am I to sit ’ere 
lookin’ at an empty cup, eh ? ” 

“ I’ll fetch tay in a minute,” said Barbara, pausing 
with her hands on the table. ‘‘Eh, Ruth ! Well, to think 
on’t ! to’morn ! An’ is Mester Alford travellin’ wi’ thee 
saysto ? ” 

“ Yes,” answered Ruth, “ he said he’d come. Dear 
father, I can’t bear to part bad friends ! Do forgive me. 
I can’t help going ! ” — with a sob — “ If you knew what 
I have suffered all this time ! ” 

“ Fetch th’ tay ! ” cried Sefton, rattling his cup. “ Theer, 
Ruth, goo an’ sit thee down. I’m about tired o’ this. If 
thou mun goo, thou’lt goo. It ’ll be reet enough. Happen 
it wunnot be fur so long. But we’s be alius pleased to 
welcome thee back, thou knows,” melting a little, “an’ 

thou can write, an’ that An’ ’ere’s our Luke, fair 

clemmed. I’ll uphowd yo’ ! Come thy ways in, lad. Could 
’ee do wi’ a bite o’ summat, thinksto ? ” 

He laughed boisterously^, and, as his daughter moved 
away, wiped his eyes with his sleeve. 


CHAPTER XXI 


‘‘journeys end in lovers meeting” 

It was afternoon when Henry and Ruth arrived at Spa. 
For tlie latter part of the journey they had both been very 
silent, the girl overpowered by tumultuous emotions of 
joy and expectation, Alford a prey to increasing doubt 
and fear. 

Anthony did not meet them at the station, and for a 
moment Ruth’s face clouded over ; what if he should have 
already left the place ? 

“ He probably did not get your letter,” observed Henry, 
noticing her disappointed look. “ They would not deliver 
it, you know ; and he may not have called at the post- 
office.” 

“He will be all the more surprised,” said Ruth. 

She stood gazing about her eagerly while Henry collected 
the luggage and secured a carriage. On their way to the 
hotel he glanced often at the beautiful face beside him, 
transfigured in its tender anticipation — the eyes aglow, the 
delicate nostrils dilated, the lips parted in a happy smile — 
and his heart sank lower and lower. Heaven grant that 
she be not disappointed ! Heaven bring this expedition to 
a prosperous end ! 

Henry had engaged rooms in a certain semi-private hotel, 
overlooking one of the least frequented allees^ and there 
they presently arrived. Tea was brought to them in the 
pretty sitting-room on the first floor, but, as Alford re- 
marked, Ruth could scarcely force herself to eat a mouth- 
ful. He himself swallowed a cup of tea hastily, and then, 
rising, answered the question in her eyes. 

173 


174 


A DAUGHTER OF THE SOIL 


“ I am going out to make enquiries — I shall not be long. 
His name will be probably among the list of visitors which 
they publish weekly in these places. I will soon hunt him 
up, if he is here.” 

She smiled at him gratefully, and when he went down 
stairs stepped out on the balcony. Every thing in the 
outer world combined to increase the intoxication within 
her : the balmy air, the flowers, the sun-gilt leaves of the 
creeper beneath her hand. How her eyes rested on the 
huge oleanders covered with blossom which grew immedi- 
ately under the balcony, and now wandered away to the 
green avenue, so quiet, almost deserted at this hour. The 
tranquillity here was heightened by the faint medley of 
sounds in the distance — a hubbub of voices and laughter, 
gusts of music borne ever and anon to her ears. Through 
the leafy screen she could catch glimpses of women’s gay- 
colored dresses, children’s little figures darting about ; 
groups of people going and coming. The whole place 
seemed to be glowing and pulsing with life ; and the girl’s 
own consciousness of youth and joy and vitality quickened 
and grew every moment. 

Henry had not yet left the hotel ; he had perhaps found 
a list of visitors at the office. But from her post of vantage 
she could catch him as he came out, and ask if he had 
heard any news ; and then — she would watch and wait 
until he came back — bringing Anthony with him ! How 
beautiful that music was ! Mingling with it came the 
sound of a woman’s laughter from the alle'e below, sil- 
very, delightful to hear ; then a murmur of voices, and 
then the laugh again, apparently nearer. A party of people 
were making their way slowly down the shady path; Ruth 
saw the flutter of draperies, the gleam of a white parasol 
catching the light between tree and tree. 

Henry’s voice beneath the balcony recalled her wander- 
ing attention. 

“ Ruth, it’s all right — he’s here still. I’ve got his address.” 


JOURNEYS END IN LOVERS MEETING 


1V5 


<{ 




“ Thank God ! ” breathed Ruth fervently. 

“ I am going straight there now — I hope to ” 

He paused suddenly, and she saw his face change. Fol- 
lowing the direction of his eyes, she observed that the 
group which she had been idly watching a moment ago 
was now close at hand. And in its midst was one figure, 
at the sight of which she uttered an involuntary shriek and 
stretched out her arms. 

“Anthony, Anthony ! ” 

Simultaneously Henry stepped forward : “ Your wife 

is here ! ” 

The whole party came to a standstill : there were three 
or four men and one woman. But Ruth had no eyes for 
any save that central figure which detached itself from 
the group and came forward. She could scarcely see its 
face, giddy as she was with exceeding gladness, but she 
leaned over the balcony, her arms still extended, her voice 
unsteady : 

“ It is I — I have come. Oh, come here, Anthony — 
come to me ! ” 

He brushed past Henry, and looked up. 

“ What does this mean ? ” 

Was that Anthony^ s voice, so harsh, so cold ? Was 
that his face uplifted, unsmiling — unrecognizing, it would 
seem. 

Ruth clutched the leaf-grown railing, her eyes large 
with incredulous pain, her heart seeming to stand still 
within her. 

Anthony gazed at her steadily for a moment ; and then 
turned to Henry. “ Will any one explain ? ” 

His cousin, utterly confounded, had no words to tell him 
even the little that he knew. 

In the silence that ensued the music floated toward 
them, dreamy, passionate, yearning. Ruth uttered a little 
cry. 

“ Anthony — do you not see that it is I?” 


176 


A DAUGHTER OF THE SOIL 


Anthony raised his eyes once more : there was no love 
in them — oh, God ! not even pity ! Only scorn and anger. 

The lady who had been walking by his side now broke 
into a laugh again ; and Clifton, looking round, echoed it 
bitterly. 

‘‘We were talking of comedies just now, madame,” he 
said in French. “ You did not expect to see me so soon 
take part in one.” 

“ Say rather a tragedy,” was the response, and the speaker, 
tilting back her parasol, looked up with mocking eyes. 

Ruth’s miserable gaze met hers. 

Was this the explanation of the change in Anthony — 
was it because of this bright-eyed, laughing creature that 
he loved her no more ? With an unspeakable pang Ruth 
realized how lovely she was. She had never even 
imagined such brilliant beauty, and then, the exquisite 
dress, the air of importance, distinction — this little lady 
evidently considered herself a personage. Ruth had a 
vivid inward presentment of the contrast which she her- 
self must afford, clad still in her plain travelling dress, her 
head uncovered, her face doubtless weary and travel- 
stained — she, who had never been self-conscious in her life 
was jealously, violently self-conscious now — Ruth, the 
farmer’s daughter from Little Alford, a common village 
girl, what had she to hope for if this high-bred beauty was 
her rival ? 

The young men who had formed part of the lady’s 
train, standing a little on one side, feigned to be occupied 
in talking to each other ; Henry was absolutely dum- 
founded, his wits scattered, incapable of interfering by 
word or action. The strain became unendurable, and 
Anthony, after chafing for a moment or two, approached 
the lady and touched her lightly on the arm. 

“Madame, you will be bored. Shall we go on ?” 

She turned round sharply. 

“ But no,” she replied in English, speaking loudly and 


‘‘journeys end in lovers meeting” 177 

deliberately; “this is most interesting. I did not know 
you had the happiness of being married, Mr. Clifton. Am 
I not then to make acquaintance with your wife ? ” 

Her black, dancing eyes flashed with something more 
than curiosity ; there was evident pique in tone and 
expression, and the smile with which she concluded was 
perceptibly forced. 

Anthony flushed, frowned, tapped his foot impatiently, 
but uttered no word. 

Then Ruth, with a little start, drew herself up. Her 
eyes sought his face in one last appeal, but he met her 
gaze stonily — and then she spoke : 

“ I am not his wife — I came to tell him that his wife 
was dead.” 

She did not wait to see the effect of her words. She got 
away somehow — away from them all, out of the sunshine 
into the cool dim room. Then — she did not know what 
happened. 

She found herself lying on the floor, with Henry bending 
over her, when she became once more conscious of herself 
and her misery. After staring at him a moment blankly 
she threw up her arms to hide her face. Henry knew now — 
Henry knew that she was not Anthony’s wife — oh, the 
shame of it ! 

“You are better,” he said ; “ drink a little of this water. 
Let me help you on to the sofa. There ” — assisting her to 
rise and supporting her across the room — “ now, lie quite 
quiet for a little.” 

“ Oh, yes ! ” said Ruth faintly. “ I’ll be quiet — there’s 
nothing more to do. I — I needn’t have been in such a 
hurry, need I ? ” 

Henry said nothing ; but he stood looking down at her 
with such agony of pity that her despairing composure 
gave way before it. 

“ It’s all over, all over ! Oh, take me back — take me 
back to father ! Take me home ! ” 

12 


178 


A DAUGHTER OF THE SOIL 


Her whole frame shook with sobs ; the tears burst from 
her eyes ; she covered her face with her hands, but the 
burning drops forced themselves through her fingers. 
Henry saw them drip on to the fioor ; he saw her bosom 
heave, her white throat flush — and stood helpless before 
this convulsive, passionate woman’s grief. It was a new 
and terrible experience to him : he had never seen the like, 
he did not know what to do — it was horrible that she 
should suffer thus and he be unable to comfort her. Once 
he made a step toward her, crimsoning to the temples : but 
arrested himself, biting his lips. At last, he could endure 
it no longer, and with a wistful backward glance went very 
softly toward the door, and left her to herself. 


CHAPTER XXII 


CHERCHEZ LA FEMME 

Henry spent the next hour in pacing up and down the 
allee in front of the hotel, seeking to reduce to some kind 
of order the chaos of his thoughts. 

This was the time for action, for prompt and decisive 
action, and he it was who must next move in this most 
delicate matter : but how could he plan, much less take, 
any decisive step while his heart and brain were in such a 
tumult of wrath and wonder and grief ? 

What was this tangle in which he suddenly found himself 
involved ? 

Ruth Sefton and Anthony Clifton were not man and 
wife — from her own lips he had heard it, and she had 
added that his wife was dead. 

It was inexplicable — inconceivable ! How had it all 
come to pass ? How could his cousin have gone through 
the ceremony of marriage with poor Ruth while this wife 
of his was alive ? He did not know (it was to be hoped) 
that she was still living ; of course he did not know, Henry 
told himself, dismissing the momentary doubt which oc- 
curred to him with a quick flush of shame — but it was cul- 
pable, criminal in him not to have made sure that he was 
free before approaching this innocent girl. Who was his 
mysterious wife ? Where had she entrenched herself ? 
How was it that he had never dropped a hint of a former 
marriage ? It was doubtless no very creditable one. Stray 
words and expressions of Anthony’s recurred to Henry 
now with new meaning, and he suddenly remembered the 
woman who had come to Alford in the early spring to 

179 


180 


A DAUGHTER OF THE SOIL 


make enquiries about bis cousin. She had forced herself 
into his study, plied him persistently with questions, gone 
away reluctantly. He remembered her — the woman with 
the insolent manner and the painted face, whom he had 
been so eager to be rid of — and in a flash the conviction 
came to him — that was Anthony’s wife ! 

He saw his way a little more clearly now. She had 
doubtless tracked the couple to their Devonshire home, 
and Ruth, poor Ruth, learning the truth, had fled heart- 
broken to her father. Of course — it was the only thing 
she could do. And then, managing in some inexplicable 
way to hear of the woman’s death, she had sought out 
Anthony eagerly, joyfully; expecting to be reunited to 
him without loss of time. Knowing her so well, Henry 
could realize the workings of her mind. Anthony’s be- 
havior was less easily accounted for. Those ugly rumors 
about him ; his reckless seeking for new and hitherto 
uncongenial forms of dissipation ; his carelessness of dis- 
graceful notoriety, were these his methods of drowning the 
grief which he shared with such a noble woman as Ruth ? 
Surely the thought of the misfortune he had unwittingly 
brought upon her, the mere memory of .her love, should 
have stimulated him to be worthy of her even in their 
enforced separation ! 

But then ; what part did the little black-eyed foreigner 
play in this complicated drama? This pretty, well-dressed 
doll, with her artificial laugh, and practised airs and graces ! 
She was no more fit to be compared to Ruth than gaslight 
was to starlight, and yet, in her presence, Anthony seemed 
to have no thought, no care for the faithful, beautiful crea- 
ture whom for more than a year he had called his wife. 

While he thus wrathfully pondered, he had uncon- 
sciously wandered to the further end of the allee^ and sud- 
denly found himself close to the fashionable promenade, 
now rapidly thinning, for the dinner hour was drawing 
near. He paused a moment, vacantly watching the still 


CHERCHEZ LA FEMME 


181 


animated scene, and was preparing to retrace his steps 
when he was arrested by the sound of his own name. 

“ Hallo, Alford, is that you ? ” 

Turning sharply, he recognized one of his country neigh- 
bors, a certain Roland Shireburn, a pleasant young fellow 
who had recently come into a property near Alford and 
taken to himself a wife. 

Henry, summoning up the most genial air he could mus- 
ter on such short notice, submitted to be introduced to the 
lady — a pretty little Saxon of the round-faced, blue-eyed 
order, and also a young man who formed one of the party 
and whose accent betokened that he was an American. 

“Still honey-mooning?” enquired Alford, making the 
remark for the sake of saying something. 

“ Oh, dear no ! Why, we’ve been married nearly three 
months ! ” said the little wife, with an assumption of 
matronly dignity which would have amused Henry at 
some other time ; but it irritated him now, as did also the 
delighted husband’s conscious air. How could he feel 
sympathy for the billings and cooings of these prosperous 
young people when a few hundred yards away Ruth was 
breaking her heart ! 

“ The missus and I have come here for a little spree,” 
observed Shireburn. “We’ve been working so hard, 
getting everything ship-shape at home, we felt we 
deserved a holiday. The painters are in the house, you 
know — such a nuisance ! And we are adding on to the 
stables.” 

“ And Mr. Rickards kept tempting us with such delight- 
ful accounts of Spa,” put in madame, with an arch glance 
at the young American. “ It was really he who inveigled 
us away from our duty. He’s an habitue of the place, you 
know, and he’s going to take us everywhere, and put us in 
the way of every thing. We are going to have a real good 
time, as he says ; aren’t we, Mr. Rickards ? ” 

“Well, I want you to,” said he. 


182 


A DAUGHTER OF THE SOIL 


“ Oh, look, look ! ” cried Mrs. Shireburn, “ there’s that 
lovely woman we saw at the Casino yesterday. I forget 
what her name is, but I think her perfectly beautiful, 
don’t you, Mr. Alford ? ” 

Henry, following the direction of her eyes, saw the dark- 
eyed little lady who had been recently in his thoughts. 
Anthony was not with her — only one man indeed walked 
beside her, while she herself appeared absorbed in the care 
of a little old lady with a wizened face and diamond ear- 
rings, whose palsied hand rested on her arm. 

“ What is her name, I forget ?” went on Mrs. Shireburn. 
“She’s quite the queen of Spa, isn’t she ?” 

“ Her name is Mme. Roudoff. Her husband was a 
Russian, but she herself is a Greek, I think. That is her 
aunt. The little Roudoff is touchingly devoted to her — in 
public. Yes, I think she has every thing pretty much her 
own way here. This year, at least, she is the acknowl- 
edged beauty. Last year she was in mourning for her 
old husband, and though she was very effective with flow- 
ing black draperies and moist eyes she hadn’t scope 
enough.” 

“ She wore a lovely dress last night,” interrupted Mrs. 
Shireburn. “ Exquisite old rose satin and such lace ! So 
beautifully made too — she looked like an old picture just 
stepped out of its frame.” 

“ Ye-es,” agreed Rickards dryly. “ I guess I should 
like her best in a frame.” 

“You don’t seem to admire her?” said Henry, turning 
toward him quickly. 

“ Admire her ! oh, of course I admire her ! Every one 
does. If you come to Spa, you’ve got to admire Mme. 
Roudoff. But it’s easy to see tliat none of the idiots in her 
train have such a profoundly fatuous admiration for her 
as she has for herself. That’s why I think she’d do better 
in a frame. The r6le would suit her to perfection — to be 
hung up in a prominent position for people to look at, you 


CHEECHEZ LA FEMME 


183 


know, and have nothing to do all day but say ‘ Aren’t I 
lovely ? ’ Whereas, as it is, that little soulless wretch 
manages to accomplish a good deal of mischief. There 
was a duel here last week between two of her adorers — both 
foreigners, so we rather laughed at it, but all the same one 
lad — she likes ’em young as a rule — got badly hurt. Then 
there was a Yankee chap — rather a good fellow. He was 
getting desperate, so I took him in hand myself and 
shipped him off home to his folks. They think no end of 
him, but I doubt if they’ll be able to do much with him 
for a good bit now.” 

‘‘ Has she any particular admirer ? ” put in Henry in an 
odd, harsh voice. 

“Well, till lately she was pretty impartial — kept ’em all 
well in hand, you know. Snubbed any luckless youth who 
ventured to make more open advances than his fellows, 
and was very much astonished and wounded whenever 
a poor fool proposed to her. She has different ways of 
discussing the subject of matrimony — sometimes she 
frankly declares that she will not be caught again in that 
trap. ‘ I have already had enough of it,’ she says. ‘ I have 
been married — married ! There never was a woman so 
much married as I. Ce pauvre Roudoff ! II ne me lachait 
pas d’une semelle ! ’ But occasionally it suits her to play 
the disconsolate mourner. The pretty little handkerchief 
comes out to hide those wicked black eyes of hers — and she 
reminds the remorseful wooer in broken tones that it is 
only a year since she lost her Alexander ! and that, though 
she seeks ‘ distractions,’ still it is not delicate — he will under- 
stand. When it comes to this the suitor generally retires, 
feeling himself a brute beast.” 

“ Well, but — has she changed her tactics lately? ” per- 
sisted Henry, as the other stopped to laugh. 

“ Curiously enough she has taken the most ridiculous 
fancy to a man whose chief attractions seem to be his 
villanons reputation and his indifference to her.” 


184 


A DAUGHTER OF THE SOIL 


“ Indifference ! ” exclaimed Alford eagerly. 

“ Well, he evidently didn’t care a button for her to begin 
with, but I think of late she has managed to get round 
him. It was an extraordinary thing. When the fellow 
Clifton^ — he’s an Englisnman — arrived here, nobody took 
the least notice of him. Nobody in society, that is — we are 
not too strait-laced here. Spa on s^amuse ’ — as they 
say. Every one knows every one that is the least bit know- 
able. The Belgian aristocrats actually throw down the 
barrier which usually separates them from every one that 
is not ‘ noble.’ If people are smart, and amusing, and 
fairly respectable, they may, for the time being, be ad- 
mitted into notre monde. But we draw the line some- 
where — and we were going to draw it at Clifton, but Mme. 
Roudoff wouldn’t have it. ‘ II me plait,’ she said. ‘ II a 
quelquechose de farouche — de sauvage. C’est un tigre, 
tandis que vous autres — messieurs — ne vous fachez pas ’ — 
with one of her most charming smiles — ‘ vous me faites un 
peu I’effet de petits singes ! ’ ” 

‘‘ How rude ! ” ejaculated little Mrs. Shireburn, deeply 
scandalized. ‘‘ And were you there, Mr. Rickards ? ” 

“And so,” he continued, addressing Alford without 
appearing to notice the interruption, “ she not only annexed 
him — but she floated him, whether he would or not. She 
simply took possession of him, and trotted him about every- 
where. He used to look bored at first, and then she made 
up to him more than ever, and now he seems to like it. 
He’s always in her pocket, I know. ‘ Beau Tigre ’ she calls 
him.” 

“ Will she marry him ? ” asked the lady, still in shocked 
and awe-struck tones. 

“I don’t know, I’m sure,” with a short laugh. “Per- 
haps he won’t ask her.” 

“ Did you ask her, Rickards ? ” said Mr. Shireburn, 
with a sudden outburst of ponderous north-country wit. 
“ Was she sprightly or doleful with you, my boy ? ” 


CHERCHEZ LA FEMME 


185 


Mr. Rickards bad certainly displayed an intimate ac- 
quaintance with the doings and sayings of the wayward 
beauty, and had, moreover, described them with a mixture 
of unction and bitterness which justified the supposition 
that, at least in the past, he had been under her spell. 
But if such were the case, he was too well seasoned to 
betray himself : and, surveying his friends, without 
“ turning a hair,” replied tranquilly that he hoped soon to 
have the pleasure of introducing them to Mme. Roudoff, 
who would, he guessed, be happy to give them all informa- 
tion herself. 

‘‘ I don’t think I want to know her,” said the young wife, 
shaking her head till her fluffy, fair fringe danced on her 
pretty, unintellectual brow. “ I don’t think she can be 
nice. I sha’n’t allow you to know her either, Roland.” 

The dispute which ensued between the couple, with its 
feigned indignation and jealousy, its hackneyed jokes and 
stale retorts, aroused once more sensations of disgust and 
irritation in Henry, and, taking his leave hastily, he turned 
away. He had found out something at least ; he knew the 
name and character of the woman who seemed at present 
to be mistress of Anthony’s unstable affections ; he knew 
that his admiration of her had been unwilling, the result of 
a determined siege on her part, of countless wiles, continued 
flattery. Faugh ! that Anthony could have let himself be 
gulled by such a little soulless wretch — as that man called 
her — while Ruth lived and loved him ! To Henry it 
seemed an impossibility; he hoped, he was almost con- 
vinced that this fancy was only skin-deep, and that a strong 
remonstrance on his own part, an interview, if he could 
bring it about, between the divided couple, would result in 
a good understanding. 


CHAPTER XXIII 


BROUGHT TO BAY 

Anthony was looking out of the window when Henry 
approached his hotel, and his face darkened as he watched 
him cross the road. 

He had been expecting this visit, and had purposely 
remained indoors to receive it ; and yet, at the approach 
of the familiar spare form and thoughtful face, he rose to 
forbid admittance. 

Why should he submit, after all, to be hectored and brow- 
beaten by this strait-laced cousin of his ; teased with re- 
proaches and pleadings at second hand ? Henry had evi- 
dently constituted himself Ruth’s champion, and was coming 
doubtless to take him to task for the past, to point out his 
duty in the future. 

“ I’ll be hanged if I stand it,” muttered Anthony, cross- 
ing the room toward the bell. But he paused half-way, 
shrugging his shoulders. “ After all, the subject must be 
gone into sooner or later — there are some things I want to 
know. As well thresh it out now. It makes no difference 
to the main issue.” 

“ Does monsieur receive ? ” said his man, opening the 
door. 

Anthony nodded and returned to his chair. 

In a few minutes Henry was ushered into the room. He 
advanced hesitatingly, discouraged by the expression of 
the other’s face. When he was near enough he extended 
his hand. 

‘‘ I should have thought we might have waived that 
ceremony,” remarked Anthony bitterly. “ I wonder, now 


BROUGHT TO BAY 


187 


that you know the whole story, you should vouchsafe me 
your immaculate fingers.” 

Henry drew hack his hand and sat down. 

“ I give you my word, Anthony, that I know nothing 
whatever about this business. I heard, as you did, what 
Ruth said this afternoon on the balcony ; but otherwise I 
am completely in the dark.” 

Anthony cast a swift ironical glance in his direction ; 
and raised his eyebrows incredulously. 

“ How is it, then, may I ask, that you suddenly appear 
in the role of knight-errant — the escort of injured inno- 
cence ? ” 

The tone was almost insulting. Henry flushed : 

“ Your wife — I cannot think of her as any thing else, 
Anthony — she came to me a few days ago, radiant with 
joy — she who had been till then so dejected and misera- 
ble — and she asked me if I could find out your address, as 
she wanted to go back to you. She said there had been 
something between you, but that now it was gone.” 

Anthony threw back his head with a short laugh ; then, 
sitting upright, looked once more at his cousin, his lip 
curling, his nostrils dilating. Henry, more and more 
incensed at his manner, found it difficult to preserve his 
self-control, but for Ruth’s sake made a strong effort. 

“ She told me nothing else. I did not know — no one 
knew — what had caused her to return so suddenly to her 
home. Neither did I guess why she showed such eager- 
ness, such passionate eagerness, to go back to you.” 

“ She wanted to be made an honest woman of; is not 
that the cant phrase?” interrupted Anthony, with savagely 
sarcastic emphasis. “ Oh, yes ; I understand her. She 
thinks more of her good name, of her petty dignity, of her 
trumpery code of morality, than of any thing else in the 
world ! ” 

‘‘ I wonder you are not ashamed to speak like that ! ” 
cried Henry, flushing with generous anger. Because you 


188 


A DAUGHTEE OF THE SOIL 


have been unfaithful, is that any reason why j^ou should 
despise her ? She, at least, has been true ; her love has 
never failed you. She was willing to take you back in 
spite of your guilty carelessness in marrying her while 
there was a possible doubt of the existence of this other 
woman ; in spite of the scandalous reports of the life you 
have recently led — which reached her ears, mind you. It 
was on account of these,” he added, suddenly dropping his 
voice, and speaking with a certain diffidence, ‘‘ that, when 
I found her determined on setting out to rejoin you, 
I volunteered to accompany her. I did not wish her to 
take you by surprise.” 

“ Most thoughtful of you,” put in Anthony. 

“ I wanted, if possible, to avert the calamity which has 
actually befallen her,” went on Henry, with emotion. “ I 
thought I might act as go-between — warning you, restrain- 
ing her, arranging a meeting for you. Remember, I had 
no other thought than that of restoring a wife to her 
husband.” 

“Well, my dear Henry, you have quite sufficiently 
explained yourself. I exonerate you of all motives except 
the most honorable — and officious. Now you have 
found out for yourself that it doesn’t pay to act as go- 
between.” 

“ Nevertheless,” interrupted Henry earnestly, “ I am 
going to beg of you, Anthony, to follow your better 
instincts. Ruth has a claim on you which you cannot in 
honor put aside. You have wronged her — unintentionally, 
I know, but still grievously.” 

“ Don’t be too sure the wrong, as you call it, was unin- 
tentional,” retorted Anthony. Suddenly leaving his chair, 
he walked up to his cousin. “ Come, let us have an end of 
this. You quite mistake the whole case. I was fully 
aware when I married Ruth, that — the other was alive. 
I looked upon my first marriage as no marriage ; the 
woman, though I did not know it at the time, I was but 


BROUGHT TO BAY 


189 


a lad, was a notorious bad character. I left her, pension- 
ing her off, on the condition of keeping my secret. Then 
I had my fling,” grimly, “ and was getting pretty sick of it 
when I came across Ruth. She — well you know all about 
that story. I felt, at least I thought, that her innocence 
and goodness would be the saving of me. I loved her with 
a passion I could not resist, and I resolved to win her.” 

His eyes were looking beyond his cousin, his voice had 
sunk to a monotonous undertone ; the phrases came glibly, 
as though he had often rehearsed tliem to himself. 

“ There was only one way of obtaining possession of 
her — I knew that. I must marry her. A ceremony per- 
formed after the manner of her own Church would satisfy 
her ; it did no harm to me. I myself have no belief in 
forms of any kind ; the cursed rite which linked me with 
the degraded wretch who wrecked my life before I was 
two-and-twenty sickened me forever of them. But I 
believed in my love ; I felt sure of myself and my own 
fidelity, I felt that the misery of my past gave me a right 
to clutch at the happiness within my reach. After all, 
a man has but one life ; why should the consequences of 
a woman’s trickery follow me to my grave ?” 

Henry had turned quite white with anger and disgust, 
but had hitherto kept mastery over himself ; now, how- 
ever, he broke out vehemently : 

“ I never heard such wicked, outrageous nonsense ! The 
trickery of one woman gives you the right to betray 
another ? You might as well say that because somebody 
has stolen my ring I am entitled to help myself to some- 
one else’s watch ! ” 

Anthony burst into a loud, unmirthful laugh. 

“ Henry, you are right ; I have been talking nonsense ! 
I was almost melodramatic ! If any thing besides my 
natural sense of humor were wanting to make me see the 
ridiculousness of it, it would be your illustration, in your 
best Sunday-school manner ! Henry, you will be Henry 


190 


A DAUGHTER OF THE SOIL 


to the end of the chapter. Go it, my dear fellow, you are 
most entertaining.” 

“ If you want plain speaking, you shall have it ! ” cried 
Alford, rising too, and lifting his eyes scornfully to those 
which looked down at him from their superior height with 
an attempt at amused unconcern. 

There was a moment’s pause and then he said de- 
liberately : 

“You have acted like a dastard, Anthony ! I wonder 
you can bring yourself to own what you have done ! I 
say nothing of the shock it is to me to hear that you, my 
flesh and blood, have stooped to commit a crime of the 
kind — a felony ! But your conduct to Ruth ; the baseness, 
the treachery ! Good Lord ! ” cried Henry, quivering 
with anger, the words coming quicker and louder as he 
proceeded. “ Good Lord ! how can you dare to look 
me or any other honest man in the face ! You come 
across the girl, an innocent, happy girl, and you deliber- 
ately set yourself to ruin her ! You force yourself into 
her family for no other purpose than to dishonor it. Her 
people are honest, simple, upright folks, who have always 
held their own and commanded respect. Do you suppose 
they are not as proud in their own way, as keenly alive to 
disgrace, as people in our rank of life ? And you come 
among them in pretended friendship, you break their 
bread and grasp their hands, and all the time you are 
planning how to take advantage of their guilelessness ! I 
say you should be ashamed to look me in the face ! ” 

Anthony had kept his eyes fixed on his cousin’s through- 
out this attack, and did not avert them now ; his lips were 
white and dry, but he forced them into a smile. 

“ Of course I know such things have been done before,” 
went on Henry ; his indignation still at fiery heat. “The 
gentleman who ruins the peasant girl— it is a common 
story ! But nevertheless a man may be straightforward, 
even in his vices — there is a kind of pagan honesty, a dis- 


BROUGHT TO BAY 


191 


torted code of honor, to be found among men of the loosest 
morality. But this trumped-up story of yours — these 
flimsy, miserable excuses ! Faugh ! they make me sick ! ” 

Clifton, astonished, confounded at the suddenness of the 
outburst, stung to the quick by the scathing contempt in 
look and tone, had no words to reply. 

‘‘ You think to account for every thing,” resumed Alford, 
“ for your viciousness, your cowardly self-indulgence, your 
base and dishonorable usage of a sweet woman, by saying 
you have no beliefs. More shame for you if you have no 
beliefs ! Do you think it is an extenuation of your other 
wickedness to say you began by turning your back on 
your God ? I say it is an act of treachery the more ! ” 

Anthony laughed : there spoke the bigot and the 
Puritan ! He felt more at ease when Alford took this 
tone — a tone which, emancipated and enlightened as he 
felt himself to be, he could afford to despise — than when 
he accused him of being wanting in the attributes common 
to all but the lowest of humanity. 

A moment ago he had almost quailed before Henry; 
his scorn had awakened answering scorn in himself. He, 
who had been wont to despise this insignificant weakling 
of a cousin, had for a moment found himself envying his 
clean record, his unswerving rectitude ; and had owned 
with rage and shame that he was the better man of the two. 

But now he began to recover himself. What was Henry, 
after all ? A narrow-minded recluse, a parson manque^ the 
devotee of a worn-out. creed — a creed of which all men of 
deep thought and clear sight were shaking off the trammels ; 
Anthony felt some complacency as he told himself this. 
How could Henry with his passionless nature, his anti- 
quated prejudices, his rigid standard of right and wrong, 
be a fit judge of the mode of thought and action of a man 
of the world ? He knew nothing of the world ; he knew 
nothing of life, of temptation ; he was incapable of under- 
standing the complex motives, the unaccountable impulses 


192 


A DAUGHTER OF THE SOIL 


of such a nature as Anthony’s. He could not realize how 
a man might suddenly find himself driven by the . forces 
within him to take a totally unexpected line of conduct ; 
and how, though the results thereof might be disastrous, 
his intentions might be of the best. 

It was useless to argue with Henry — he could not con- 
ceive, much less sympathize with Anthony’s point of view ; 
but Anthony, remembering this point of view, felt better 
able to meet his eyes. 

“ Well,” he said, with a little shrug of the shoulders, 
suppose we take all this as said — what next ? ” 

“ You have got to explain your treatment of Huth to- 
day. Your fancy for her is, I suppose, dead,” said 
Henry, with bitter emphasis, “ though, when you deluded 
her with this invalid marriage, you thought yourself sure of 
your love and fidelity. Oh, my blood boils when I think 
of it ! Poor girl, poor child ! when I remember her happy 
face on what she fancied was her wedding-morning, so 
proud, so grateful for the honor you had done her ! And 
you walking beside her with her trusting hand on your 
arm — you felt no pang of shame or remorse, though you 
were leading her to infamy ! ” 

“ Infamy ! ” echoed Anthony, involuntarily clenching 
his hand. 

“Yes, infamy ! This is no time for mincing matters. 
What was it you destined her to be ? When a woman 
lives with a man as his wife, and is not his wife — what is 
she ? Do you suppose I have forgotten our conversation 
on the day when you definitely settled matters? You 
asked me to alter my will ; you did not think it right that 
a child of yours and Ruth’s should be the heir of Alford : 
from some distorted notion of honor you drew the line at 
that. Why ? Because you knew the stigma which would 
be attached to such a child ! Ho — j^ou cannot explain this 
away ; your sophistries will not help you. You have been 
a coward and a villain, and you know it ! ” 


BROUGHT TO BAY 


193 


Anthony drew in his breath with a sudden gasp. The 
accusation came as a revelation to himself : he could not 
repudiate it, but he would not have it brought home to 
him. 

Choking with rage, he seized Henry by the shoulders : 

“ H you, do you think I will submit to this ? Be 

off ! I have had enough of you ! ” 

Alford twisted himself free. 

“ I will not leave this room till I thoroughly understand 
your intentions. I allowed the girl to come to you. I 
even took on myself the responsibility of bringing her 
here. She must know, before I take her back, the position 
in which she stands. Up to this she has kept your secret 
for your sake and her own. Ho one knows that she is not 
really Mrs. Clifton — your wife. How, however, it must be 
one thing or the other. Ho real tie binds you to her or 
any woman. The death of your wife leaves you free ” 

“ Free ! ” interrupted Anthony, with a sudden charac- 
teristic change of tone. “ Wait a bit. I want to take in 
that idea. I am a free man — I, who have been bound for 
fifteen years ! ” 

‘‘ Well then, let the first use you make of your liberty 
be to atone to Ruth. Come, Anthony, you love her — you 
know you love her. All that is best in you is attracted by 
her. Make her your wife in reality — as she has been for 
a long time in name. Take away this crushing shame and 
misery which is killing her. You cannot,” he added, 
almost pleadingly, “ you cannot mean to forsake her now ! ” 

Again a wave of ungovernable rage seemed to sweep 
over Anthony. 

“And if I did,” he cried, “ she would deserve it ! Did 
she not spurn me when I besought her on my knees ? Did 
she not forsake me without a pang ? Did she not even 
shut her door in my face when I came hungering for a 
sight of her ? My love is dead, I tell you. Whatever 
there was in me that was attracted by her is dead. Per- 
13 


194 


A DAUGHTER OF THE SOIL 


haps I am a villain and a brute — but if so it is her fault. 
She could have made any thing of me. If I am what I am 
it is because I — oh, where is the use of arguing with a 
stone like you ! You would never understand the torture, 
the misery, the madness ” 

He stopped, biting his lips ; the resentment, which had 
become the master-passion of his life since Ruth had left 
him, gathering fresh strength under the ignominy of 
Henry’s reproaches. Anthony was a proud man, and the 
loss of self-respect was more to him than it would have 
been to another in the same plight. His had been a nature 
“ nobly planned,” though it had not fulfilled its promise. 
It had originally taken a downward bent in rebellion, not 
from weakness ; and though hardened and warped by 
excess, it still retained a certain fineness of fibre, a sensi- 
tiveness on the point of honor, which recoiled from the 
conviction of its own disgrace. The consciousness that 
his cousin despised him was agony — the more acute that, 
in spite of his powers of self-deception, he now felt in his 
heart of hearts that his conduct could not be excused. 
Henry’s impeachment had presented it to him in an 
entirely new light ; he had hitherto been persuaded that 
his dealings with Ruth, before and after their union, had 
been justified b}’’ the exceptional circumstances of the case ; 
he had been sincere in his belief that he was deeply 
wronged by her desertion of him ; that his anger was well 
called for, his faithlessness deserved. But now, he could 
not but own that Henry, unenlightened and prejudiced as 
he was, had made out a strong case. If that was how his 
behavior presented itself to the world at large — why, then, 
though he would never forgive Ruth ; never, never, take 
her to his heart ; still he was no doubt bound to make her 
reparation. 

“ If she refused to live with you in sin, you cannot blame 
her,” urged Alford, breaking in upon his thouglits. “ Be 
just to her, Anthony. Surely you are still capable of seeing 


BBOUGHT TO BAY 


195 


that she has a claim on you which you cannot put aside. 
If there is any remnant of truth and honor in you, you will 
marry her.” 

“Very well, then,” said Anthony, “I will marry her. 
Now have the goodness to go away.” 

His cousin stared, far more taken aback by his sudden 
acquiescence than he would have been by a decisive 
refusal. Clifton’s face was pale and set, his eyes glowing 
under their frowning brows, his lips compressed. 

Henry’s heart sank ; was this really for Ruth’s happi- 
ness ? But at least she was to be spared disgrace. 

“ If you will have the kindness to keep out of Ruth’s 
way and mine, for an hour or so,” resumed Anthony, after 
a pause, “I will call presently and arrange the matter with 
her. I prefer to see her by herself, you understand.” 

“ Naturally ! Come Anthony, I hope this business may 
end well after all.” 

Anthony, for all answer, took him by the arm, propelled 
him — this time unresistingly — toward the door, opened it, 
and thrust him out on the landing. 


CHAPTER XXIV 


JUDAS 

When Anthony found himself in Ruth’s presence she 
was still reclining on the sofa where Henry had left her, 
no longer weeping now, but so exhausted that she was 
scarcely conscious of her surroundings. 

Clifton had entered unannounced, having dismissed the 
waiter as soon as the latter pointed out the door of the 
room where she was, and paused to look at the motionless 
figure, the pale face, with its swollen features and red- 
dened eyelids. Why were those eyelids closed? Had 
she, like the overgrown child that she was, cried herself 
to sleep? For a moment he felt some inclination to 
compassion, but he steeled himself against it. What was 
such grief worth, after all ? It arose merely from selfish 
disappointment. When he had wept at her feet — wept 
with a man’s difficult, torturing tears — she had denied him ! 

Approaching a step or two, he called her by her name. 

She sat up, looking round her with a dazed expression : 
then, identifying him, she rose and advanced toward him. 
Something of the old admiration unwillingly recurred to 
Anthony as he watched her movements : not even Mme. 
Roudoff, with all her airy grace, could cross a room like 
that. 

‘‘ What have you come for ? ” said Ruth, pausing a few 
paces away from him. Her delicate brows were drawn 
together, her face rigidly set in the effort to preserve her 
self-control. 

So this was how she received him, now that he sought 
her out — the man she had professed to love devotedly ! 
She knew how to weep for herself, but she could greet 

196 


« 


JUDAS 


197 


him without a tear, without a sign of womanly softness 
or weakness. Not even a reproach ! Pah ! she was no 
woman ! The real coldness of her nature showed itself 
now. It was not worth her while doubtless to conceal it — 
she thought the game was played out. 

“I have come about a matter of business,” he said 
coldly ; “ a formality which will soon be disposed of. 
There need be no pretence between us. We know each 
other now, thoroughly.” 

Ruth did not reply. His tone was harsh with sup- 
pressed bitterness — his manner almost insulting. And 
this to her — to her ! She set her teeth, and clenched her 
hands, lest she might cry out in her awful pain. 

“You said this afternoon that the woman — my wife” 
correcting himself fiercely — “ was dead. Is it true ? ” 

It was to make sure of his liberty, then, that he had 
come to her in her misery ? to make sure that no obstacle 
remained which need hinder him from plighting his troth 
elsewhere. Tliis was to be her reward for travelling to 
him in such hot haste ; her eager hope, her ardent desire, 
outstripping even the rapidity of her progress, from her 
own lips he was to learn that he was free to woo another 
woman. 

“ It was true,” she answered quickly. “ I can show you 
the proof, if you like.” 

She took the captain’s letter from her pocket and gave 
it to him, first endeavoring to remove the enclosure ; but 
her trembling fingers bungled with the envelope, and the 
ring, slipping from its wrapper, fell on the floor, rolling to 
Anthony’s feet. He picked it up with a sarcastic smile 
and laid it on the table. Ruth was a practical woman 
certainly ! She had brought tangible evidence with her 
to substantiate her word. He crumpled up the letter in 
his hand, without reading it. What did it matter how or 
where the creature had died, so long as it was certain she 
was dead ? 


198 


A DAUGHTER OF THE SOIL 


“ Nothing like proof, is there ? ” he said. “ Well, there 
can be no doubt on that point apparently — now let us come 
to business. You consider, I suppose, that I have treated 
you badly. I will not trouble you by explaining my point 
of view. Even if you did not know it already, circumstances 
are now so much altered that it is not worth while. You 
have a claim on me — I admit it. I now desire to see that 
justice is done you.” 

Ruth drew back with a sudden, swift movement, startling 
in one who, a moment before, had stood like some stern 
statue of grief. 

“ Good God, are you going to offer me money ? ” she 
cried hoarsely. Anthony flushed, but more with anger 
than with shame. 

“No — I knew you better than that. You will have 
your pound of flesh. Now, for goodness’ sake let us make 
an end of this speedily. You were deceived by me in the 
past — led to believe that you were my wife when as a 
matter of fact you were not ; to call 5^ourself by a name to 
which legally you had no right. You valued these things — 
my love, my life’s devotion could not, as j^ou proved, out- 
weigh them. It is now in my power to make atonement 
to you. You and I could never, as you must feel yourself, 
resume our life together. We know each other too well. 
This crisis in the past was certainly a revelation to me — 
it might have brought us closer together — as it was, it 
separated us forever. I could not live with you now, to 
be haunted at every turn by the memory of my fool’s para- 
dise — by the ghost of my dead love ! But I can marry 
you — and then we can go our way hereafter without troub- 
ling each other. You will be Mrs. Clifton, duly and prop- 
erly wedded, even if your husband is a scamp. Nobody 
will be able to point a finger at you, or breathe a whisper 
against you. You can return to your father, secure in your 
unimpeachable respectability — your friends can blame the 
wicked husband as much as they like — no need to stop 


JUDAS 


199 


their mouths now — but no one can say a word to disparage 
the virtuous wife.” 

The sneering words were as nothing to the insolence of 
the tone. Ruth had turned a little away from him, and he 
could not see her face. He came a step nearer : 

“ Well, I presume you agree ? ” 

‘‘No,” she said, without turning her head. “ I refuse.” 

Her manner roused all the deviltry in him. 

“ Take care ! Do not for the sake of a moment’s temper 
take a step which you will afterward regret. If you decline 
my offer — which is by no means advantageous to me, 
remember — you must abide the consequences. You must 
give up calling yourself by my name if you are too proud 
to take it in earnest — I will have no more shams, I warn 
you. Think well what you are doing. You must be pre- 
pared to endure a great deal of unpleasantness ” 

“ I can bear it,” interrupted Ruth, “ with every thing 
else ! ” She faced him now with sudden, fierce indigna- 
tion. “ Oh, have you not done enough, have I not borne 
enough from you, that you must come here to insult me ? 
How dare you put me on a par with that miserable fallen 
creature who is dead ? How dare you think for a moment 
I would accept such an offer? I came to you,” she added, 
after a pause, “ because I thought you loved me — and now 
that I find you don’t want me, I can go back. I can bear 
the shame — I could have borne every thing but this. You 
might have spared me this ! ” 

There ^as a passionate grief mingled with her wrath 
which struck at Anthony’s heart. For a moment something 
rose up within him — a power stronger even than his vehe- 
ment resentment. Was it love or hate ? 

“ Ruth ! ” he said huskily; and he laid his hand upon 
her arm. But she shook it off with a sweeping, impetuous 
gesture of dismissal. 

“ Out of my sight ! ” she cried. 

He looked at her noble face, transfigured in its lofty 


200 


A DAUGHTER OF THE SOIL 


anger, and a sudden rage of despair took possession of him : 
thus might a lost soul contemplate, at the moment of 
eternal separation, the beauty of its Creator. And then, 
without a word, he turned and left her, staggering a little 
when he reached the open air, for he felt giddy and sick, 
as one might who had just received a violent blow. 

Ruth scorned him ; then he must be lost indeed. Yes, 
he had seen scorn in her eyes — those sweet eyes which used 
to light up with such tender eagerness at his approacii. 
How often, too, he had watched them soften when he 
caressed her. And sometimes they would sparkle with 
innocent gayety, and sometimes be dimmed by transitory 
tears. Well, there had been scorn in them this evening — 
and scorn for him ! Oh, to recall those last few moments — 
those hasty, shameful words ! When he had sought 
her just now ; convicted though he might be of gross 
misconduct, conscious of having set at defiance all received 
canons of morality, he could still hold up his head and 
brave out the situation. But now he was dishonored, 
disgraced, beyond hope of redemption ; branded with 
an infamy which could never be effaced. Between him- 
self and her there now yawned an immeasurable gulf ; by 
his own act he had removed himself from her, cut himself 
off from all goodness, all purity, all truth. 

“ Monsieur has dropped this.” 

Some one handed him a crumpled paper which he did not 
at first recognize. He took it and turned it over — then he 
remembered it was the letter which Ruth had given him. 
Leaning against a tree, he spread it out and read it. He 
was free — yes, she was dead — but it was not that with 
which he was concerned. What was this at the end ? 

“ Tell her I send her a ring in exchange for the one she 
gave me when I was starving. She helped me when every 
one else cast me off — tell her that I want to do her a good 
turn now.” 

Anthony understood by a kind of intuition ; Ruth had 


JUDAS 


201 


succored her enemy for his sake ; that her misery might 
not be a reproach to him. Ruth, whom he had betrayed, 
cast off, insulted — surely no such outrage was ever devised 
as his mockery of reparation ! The kiss of Judas was 
scarcely less heinous in its betrayal. For a moment 
Anthony saw his own soul in its nakedness and ugliness, 
disrobed of the cloak of self-esteem with which, for years, 
he had managed to conceal its disfigurements from his 
inward gaze. The vision was appalling, unendurable ! He 
felt as if he could not behold it and live. 

Henry’s words recurred to him, now, with a distinctness 
that conveyed to his overwrought brain the impression of 
hearing them spoken aloud : “ You began by turning your 
back on your God. It is an act of treachery the more.” 

Treachery ! Yes, he was a traitor, a Judas ! He had 
committed the sin unpardonable alike by earth and heaven. 
In his passion of self-loathing he could even believe that 
there was a God, and that he had betrayed him. Old 
fragments of forgotten religious lore returned to him 
now ; he would fain have called upon the mountains to 
fall upon him, upon the hills to cover him, in the Scriptural 
phrases familiar to him as a boy. Oh, for oblivion — 
respite from this scorching shame, this intolerable pain ! 
Judas “went and hanged himself with a halter.” Well, 
it was a meet fate for a traitor — a traitor should not live. 
There were many ways in which a man could find speedy 
and secret death ; death was best when life had become 
impossible. As for “the dread of something after,” 
what hell could be worse than the consuming fire within 
him ? 

He quickened his pace, proceeding on his way so rapidly, 
indeed, that the passers by looked round in amazement ; 
but presently he was arrested by a hand on his arm. 


CHAPTER XXV 


MME. ROUDOFF 

It was Mme. Roudoff ; flushed, panting, her bright eyes 
shining from under a lace scarf hastily thrown over her 
head, the silken folds of her evening n4glig'e rustling with 
every rapid step. 

Enfin!''"* she cried ; then, in her quaint, musical Eng- 
lish : “ But where are you going, Mr. Clifton, with a face 
so tragic, and at such apace? You make such great forks, 
I had trouble to catch you up. Mo7i Dieu! what will 
people say if they see me running after you — and I who 
hold so much to the convenances ! Where are you 
going ? ” 

“ I assure you, madame — I don’t know ! ” 

“I saw you from my balcony. You looked so — how do 
you say ? — defait — houlevers'e — that my woman’s curiosity 
was aroused. And also, I beg you to believe, my woman’s 
sympathy. Without pausing to reflect, I slipped past my 
beloved aunt, who was making grimaces over her evening 
pill— joowr la digestion, you know — and here I am. 
Luckily ” — looking from side to side in fictitious alarm — 
“ the place is deserted. There is no one to be scandalized, 
except a milk-maid and a couple of gamins. But all the 
same I cannot linger here. Come back with me, sa^is 
famous. We will have a little dinner d nous trois — my dear 
aunt is so much attached to you ! And afterward, while 
she is reposing and digesting, you shall tell me all your 
troubles, and I will console you.” 

Clifton looked down into the pretty, winning face ; there 
was a certain anxiety in it, for all her light tone, which at 

203 


MME. ROUDOFF 


203 


another time he would have found flattering. But now, 
the incongruity of the situation struck him as alike pain- 
ful and ridiculous. He had been meditating self-destruc- 
tion, and Mme. Roudoff asked him to dinner ! Well, why 
not ? A tragedy was sometimes followed by a farce. 
This was certainly an anti-climax of his heroics ! 

He astonished Mme. Roudoff by a burst of harsh 
laughter. 

“ Such an invitation is not to be declined,” he said, with 
exaggerated gallantry, as soon as he could sufficiently com- 
pose his features. 

She feigned not to notice the strangeness of his manner, 
and turning, led the way to her villa with dainty, tripping 
steps, beguiling the transit with a ceaseless flow of charm- 
ing babble. 

Mme. Roudoff’s aunt, an ancient dame with an unpro- 
nounceable name, was impatiently awaiting her return. 
She assailed her niece in her own tongue with amazing 
volubility, and, judging from the frequent reference to 
the watch which she held in her shaking hand, evidently 
took her to task for being late. 

Mme. Roudoff, with a shrug of her pretty shoulders, 
replied in French out of politeness to Clifton ; the old lady 
did not speak English. 

“ Voyons, little aunt. You will forgive me, for see, I 
have brought a guest to dinner. Mr. Clifton, whom you 
are always so glad to see.” 

“ Mr. Clifton will not help me to digest,” retorted her 
relative. “ Those pills that I am ordered should be taken 
half an hour before meals, as you know. It is now forty- 
five minutes since I have swallowed mine — the good effects 
will be mitigated. I shall sleep badly to-night.” 

Mme. la Comtesse is served,” said a servant at this 
juncture, and Anthony and Mme. Roudoff stood on one 
side to allow the terrible old lady to precede them to the 
dining-room. He was unable to offer her his arm, as 


204 


A DAUGHTEE OF THE SOIL 


etiquette would have enjoined, for the reason that it 
required the support and guidance of two trained attend- 
ants to pilot her to the dining-room. She could walk, 
not to say run, briskly enough in a straight line, and took 
a fair amount of exercise daily in the neighboring avenue, 
leaning on her niece’s arm, while a stout man-servant fol- 
lowed at a little distance to assist in turning her round 
when she wished to retrace her steps. To reach, however, 
the dining-room of the pretty house which, in conjunction 
with Mme. Roudoff, she had chartered for the summer, it 
was necessary to descend a flight of steps and to turn one 
or two corners. Therefore, though the old countess set off 
at a rapid trot for the goal in question, the united strength 
of the nurses was scarcely sufficient to enable her to ac- 
complish the descent of the stairs, and the corners were 
rounded with a spasmodic suddenness most alarming to the 
beholders. 

She herself was, nevertheless, quite composed, and by 
the time Anthony and Mme. Roudoff reached the dining- 
room she had recovered her good-humor and was already 
at work on the hors d’oeuvres. A special attendant stood 
behind her chair, removing her plate as soon as she had 
emptied it, and replacing it by another course, without 
regarding the more leisurely progress of her niece and 
their guest. While they were discussing their sorbets, 
therefore, she was disposing of the last mouthful of her 
savory ; eying their plates meanwhile with regretful 
glances, as though more than half-disposed to begin again. 
Anthony deplored the fact of the digestive pill having 
been taken a quarter of an hour too soon, and thought it 
exceedingly likely that the countess would not sleep very 
well. 

The conversation was chiefly sustained by Mme. Roudoff, 
who addressed herself exclusively to Clifton, with the 
exception of an occasional delicate reminder to her aunt. 

“ A little of the sauce, ma ch'eriCy is running down your 


MME. ROUDOFF 


205 


napkin Encore une petite cochonnerie sur le men- 

ton.” From time to time with a “Permettez, petite 
tante,” she would lean forward and delicately remove the 
traces which each dainty invariably left on the old lady’s 
attire. The countess received these tender attentions with 
a glassy stare ; scraping at napkin or chin with an uncer- 
tain spoon, or submitting to the operation performed more 
deftly by her niece, with admirable stoicism. 

The fare was choice and exquisitely served ; the wines 
excellent ; the hostess delightful, seductive, and amusing : 
altogether, though the presence of the aristocratic glutton 
at the head of the table rather marred the aesthetic effect, 
it was a repast for an epicure to dream of. Yet more than 
once Anthony found himself thinking of his first meal 
at the Warren Farm. The smoking bacon ; the coarse 
snowy cloth, the homely figures of Bob and Barbara — and 
Ruth in her working dress — looking up with her sweet, 
unconscious gaze. 

“Dreamer !” said Mine. Roudoff, tapping the table with 
her fan. “ Je me tue k etre spirituelle, et vous ne riez 
pas ! ” 

She was sitting a little sideways, one dimpled elbow rest- 
ing on the table, an apricot in her plump hand. Meeting 
his eyes, she pouted. 

“ I will talk no more ! ” she said, and she bit into her 
apricot with a suddenness that would have been savage if 
it had not been so dainty : her little white teeth doing 
quick execution, her eyes glancing roguishly toward 
Anthony every now and then. At last, twirling the stone 
into her plate, she jumped up. 

“Let us go upstairs again. The dear aunt is nodding, 
Ellefera une petite somme, and meanwhile we can con- 
verse.” 

The pretty drawing-room was deliciously cool at this 
hour — shadowy, dusky, full of delicate flower-scents — an 
ideal lady’s bower. Mme. Roudoff, with a rustle of her 


206 


A DAUGHTER OF THE SOIL 


soft primrose-colored draperies, sank into a low easy chair ; 
her hands clasped behind her head, her round chin tilted 
upward with a certain suggestion of impertinence, an 
elfish malice in her eyes. Anthony sat opposite, awaiting 
her next move in expectant silence. She was amusing, and 
it was delightful to be amused : after all, was not this the 
truest type of woman ? A beautiful toy — a thing to play 
with in a man’s lighter mood, to distract him in a weary 
one — a compound of folly and charm and native vanity ; 
whose highest ambition was to please, whose keenest emo- 
tion was the consciousness of admiration. 

Anthony smiled lazily, and let himself drift : the influ- 
ence of his surroundings, the more potent spell of the 
enchantress opposite, were beginning to make themselves 
felt. Mme. Roudoff, detecting his approach to a comfort- 
able and sympathetic frame of mind, suffered her lips to 
curl upward a little at the corners. 

Through the open window, or rather glass door, which 
communicated with the balcony, the soft air came in ; the 
roses climbing over the railing nodded, and pungent, spicy 
evening scents were wafted from the garden below. Mme. 
Roudoff’s villa was situated at a little distance from the 
town itself : and Anthony, from his corner, could see noth- 
ing but a leafy, bowery outside world — a bird flitting occa- 
sionally with a drowsy chuckle across the clear patch of 
sky between tree and tree ; yonder, in the limpid greenish 
blue, a young moon sailing up slowly. 

Mme. Roudoff’s voice broke the stillness. 

“ This is the moment of confidences. What a pity you 
do not like speaking French. French is, as you know, the 
language of friends.” 

“ Then you must seldom hear it.” 

“ What ? dare you say I hear no friends ? ” 

“ Madame, with you one’s attitude is perforce that of a 
slave or a lover ! ” 

“ Ah, it is prettily said, that ! I have also enemies — of 


MME. ROUDOFF 


207 


my own sex. For the rest, selon. Now, let us speak 
seriously. I am grieved to hear, monsieur, of your loss. 
I did not know you possessed a wife, therefore I am all the 
more surprised to learn that she is dead ! Receive, if you 
please, my condolences.” 

Anthony’s face darkened. 

“ There is no need, madame.” 

She crossed her pretty feet, swinging the upper one 
carelessly — the buckle of the little pointed shoe scintillat- 
ing as it caught the light — and eyed him slyly the while 
through her narrowed lids. 

“ Shall I felicitate you, then ? ” she asked, after a pause ; 
her face was sparkling, dimpling — a wicked little smile 
hovering about her mouth. 

“ As you please,” said Clifton, with one degree more of 
savage gloom. 

“ Grognon ! ” cried the little lady, sitting bolt upright. 
The foot tapped the floor, and the red lips were thrust for- 
ward sufficiently to form a distinct pout, but not so much 
as to be unbecoming. Then they smiled archly. 

“ My tiger is flerce to-day. You must be soothed, tiger. 
You must make patte de velours when you are with me. 
Allons/ what to do to make you draw in your claws? 
See ; imagine to yourself that I am delicately scratching 
your left ear. Is not that soothing ? ” 

Crooking her little white fingers she simulated the action 
in question. • Anthony could not refrain from smiling, 
though her previous questions had irritated him. 

C^est g,a ! purr then, great cat ! I know how to take 
you, you see, for I am of your tribe. Some people say I 
am like a kitten. A kitten and tiger would make Ion 
menage together — better than the lion and the mouse in 
the fable — but I should keep the net fast round you — I 
would not nibble it and let you out.” 

With sudden gravity she leaned forward, resting her 
elbows on her knees and her chin in her hands, and, after 


208 


A DAUGHTER OF THE SOIL 


looking fixedly at Anthony for a moment or two, said with 
an earnestness that surprised him : 

Mr. Clifton, why did you not tell me you were a mar- 
ried man ? ” 

“ How could I flatter myself that it concerned you to 
know ? ” he replied lightly, though the color rose slowly in 
his face. 

‘‘You should have told me,” she said, still very seriously. 
“ It was not fair — (detail tricher. But enjin — since she is 

dead I also” — with a daring change of tone, a 

swift upward glance inimitable in its mock gravity — “I 
also am widowed ! My Roudoff, as you know, is no 
more !” 

Anthony laughed softly : the little woman’s tricks were 
delicious ; all the more so because they caught his fancy 
in the rebound from something hateful, terrible. In her 
presence he felt, as it were, rehabilitated : she at least was 
not exacting ; she w^as content to take a man as he was : 
watching her engaging ways he could forget — almost ! 

“ Behold me — all alone ! ” she went on. “ Poor little 
me ! When my beloved aunt has departed au petit trot 
into the next world, and I have elevated an obelisk of 
digestive pills to her memory, there will be a great void in 
my life.” 

“It will soon be filled,” returned Clifton; “you have 
only to choose.” 

“ You really mean that — word of honor ? ” said Mme. 
Roudoff ; her eyes gleamed in the half light ; the lace 
above her bosom fluttered. 

“Certainly!” he replied. Throwing himself back in 
his cushioned chair he surveyed her with languid interest ; 
what would the pretty creature say now ? One never knew 
what to expect from her : in that perhaps lay her chief 
charm. Her next move rather startled him ! slowly rais- 
ing herself from her half-crouching posture, and extending 
a small fore-finger, she pointed it at him. 


MME. ROUDOFF 


209 


Then I choose — you ! ” she said very deliberately. “We 
are unfortunate, both of us. Let us console each other.” 

“You are surely joking, madame ? ” 

“ Of course I am joking ” — throwing back her head with 
a burst of feigned laughter, but watching him sharply the 
while. “ Ha, ha, ha, I frightened you, did I not ? ” 

“ Lajoie fait peur^"^ said Clifton. 

After all, why not ? She had sought him out of her 
own accord ; rescued him from himself ; exorcised — or so 
it seemed to him — the fiend of despair who had taken pos- 
session of him. She did not despise him — he owed her 
gratitude for that. If life were to be lived at all, could it 
offer anything better ? He had gambled with life in the 
past, as he once said to Henry. Now, ruined though he 
was, he would cast down this one stake more, and see what 
luck it would bring him. He was already bankrupt — and 
the venture could at least do him no harm. 

“Tow are jesting now,” cried madame, resenting his 
careless tone, “ and it is a bad jest ! ” 

Anthony stooped and took the little hand. How much 
smaller than Ruth’s pretty little hand, but with no character 
in it ! Then he looked calmly at the expectant face. 

“ Neither you nor I are jesting ; I hold you to your 
word ! ” 

“And that is all you say? What a strange man you 
are ! Are you not going to tell me you love me ? ” 

“ It goes without saying.” 

She laughed. 

“ Well, you are a curious creature — a monstrosity ! I 
think that is why I like you. You are a bad man, you 
know, monsieur mon futur — you only want horns — and 
what do you say ? a split foot, to be a devil. But you 
take my fancy all the more — it pleases me that you should 
be diaholique.^'' 

Deep down in Anthony’s heart came the echo of other 
words : “ You are so good — so good ! ” 

14 


210 


A DAUGHTER OF THE SOIL 


Something in his face struck his newly betrothed ; with- 
drawing her hand she said quickly : 

“ I was forgetting to ask : the woman on the balcony — 
la tragedienne with the dusty dress and the white face — 
who is she ? ” 

There was a moment’s pause ; then he said : 

“ I should recommend you not to ask.” 

“ That means that you will not answer my question ? ” 

He bowed his head. 

“Well — you have an assurance, I must say ! However, 
let it be so. I will ask you no questions. As to that I 
can guess pretty well. Vous en avez fait bien d’autres, 
mon cher. But,” with a little toss of the head, “ if I ask 
no questions neither will I answer any. Neither now nor 
at any time — you hear ? ” 

“ Perfectly ! ” said Anthony. 

“ Ah, but you must not take it so calmly — you must be 
jealous — the devil is jealous. You must be sometimes, 
or I warn you I shall give you cause ! ” 

How long ago was it — must he reckon by years or cen- 
turies ? since that sunny Sunday morning when he had 
first told his love to Ruth ? “ Be true to me,” he had 
said, and she had answered, “ I will be true.” ^ 

“ I will beat you, if you like,” he said, restraining with 
difficulty the impatience that he felt : Mme. Roudoff was 
less entertaining when she talked like this. 

“ No, I do not go so far as that, but you may fight a 
duel or two if you like. I shall bind up your wounds and 
you shall dry my tears. So — we shall get on very well ; 
we shall amuse ourselves, you in your way, and I in mine. 
A propo8 — you have some fortune of your own, have you 
not?” 

“Not very much — enough for myself,” with a frank- 
ness which equalled hers. 

“ That is all that is required. I keep my little purse 
for me, you see. A husband is sometimes extravagant 


MME. ROUDOFF 


211 


and then ” she pursed up her lips, rapidly twirling the 

fingers and thumb of one hand with an expressive and 
quite indescribable gesture. ‘‘That would not suit me. 
You must manager your revenue, and make it suffice for 
your wants.” 

Anthony laughed, recovering his good-humor in his 
appreciation of the little lady’s naive forethought. It was 
a delightful touch, that — and thoroughly characteristic. 
It tickled his fancy so much that he roused himself from 
ills languor. 

The conversation had certainly not been tender hitherto ; 
but presently Clifton began in a curious, spasmodic, artifi- 
cial fashion to make love, or rather to pay compliments, to 
his future bride — she responding gayly and with evident 
pleasure. It did not take much to please her, Anthony 
reflected, observing the eagerness with which a particularly 
crude morsel of adulation was swallowed ; and she evi- 
dently liked him. Why, he could not conceive ; but the 
fact remained : she liked him, she had selected him from 
among a crowd of real adorers ; she was not only tolerant 
of, but even attracted by his defects. It was strange — but 
not unpleasant. His very indifference appeared to fascinate 
her ; that she was fascinated, and to a certain extent 
dominated, by him was no less evident than flattering to 
his self-love. As for her, she was undisguisedly vain — 
frankly selfish — half actress, half savage — oh, yes ! he could 
see all of her short-comings plainly, but if he was good 
enough for her she was surely good enough for him. 
They would rub along very decently, and amuse them- 
selves, each in their own way, as she so candidly said — and 
she was certainly very pretty. 

By and by the door behind them was flung violently 
open, and the countess came charging in ; being only 
pulled up, with great exertion on the part of her attend- 
ants, when she was apparently on the point of precipitat- 
ing herself out of the window. 


212 


A DAUGHTER OF THE SOIL 


*‘^Ah and our coffee!” she cried. ‘‘I was dozing 
down stairs and you have forgotten it. How dark it is 
here ! Ring then, C4Iestine — you can let go my arm. 
Well, Helene, what have you been doing all this time ? ” 

“ I was sermonizing Mr. Clifton,” responded her niece 
demurely. ‘‘ He gambles too much — I tell him it is 
wrong.” 

Ate — so it is. Bring me my drops, Marie. What, 
you are not going, monsieur ? Coffee will be here 
immediately.” 

“I have unfortunately an engagement, and must say 
good-by, madame. Au revoir — Helene.” 

He dropped his voice as he pronounced the last word, 
bowing over the little plump cool hand. 

“You can kiss it ! ” said H41ene condescendingly. Her 
aunt and Marie were now entirely occupied with the 
drops. 

Anthony kissed it with an external alacrity which 
belied his inward calm ; pressed it discreetly, and dropped 
it coldly. 

“ Eight — nine,” said the countess, presenting him with 
her left hand. ‘‘Adieu ; monsieur — twelve. Be careful, 
Marie ; you let them fall too quickly.” 

Anthony went down stairs and out into the dusk. The 
stars were shining overhead — the leaves rustling. He 
thought of how he had kissed Mme. Roudoff’s hand, and 
the remembrance came to him of a remark once made in 
his hearing by a cynical old Frenchman to a lady he had 
formerly admired : 

“Autrefois, madame, vos yeux me faisaient une cer- 
taine impression — mais maintenant cela m’est tout-a-fait 
comme si c’etait des pommes cuites ! ” 

Why did this recur to him now? Why was it that 
though, while he simply formed one of Mme. Roudoff’s 
suite, he had experienced a certain pleasurable excitement 
in her society, now that she belonged to him he could not 


MME. ROUDOFF 


218 


cheat himself into fancying himself in love with her ? All 
the passion in him was dead ; all power of loving — even 
of feeling deeply — gone. Helene Roudoff was very en- 
tertaining, but 

“ Why the devil did I do it ? ” he said, and then he 
shrugged his shoulders. “ It is done now. I may as well 
make the best of it.” 

He lit a cigarette, and strolled along very slowly. Here 
was the spot where he had stood this afternoon opposite 
Ruth’s hotel. The balcony was tenantless now, but he 
pictured her there — bending toward him : 

“ Anthony, do you not see that it is I ? ” 

Was it to-day — only to-day ! A few hours ago. She 
was his then, if he had willed it. If he had hastened to 
her when she called him — in imagination he saw himself 
mounting the stairs, bursting open the door, now she came 
flying across the room to him 

Oh, Ruth, Ruth ! 

He flung away his cigarette, his face working. Looking 
at him now, one would not have said he was incapable of 
strong emotion. 

What was she doing at this moment ? Had she already 
left, or was she there behind one of those shrouded win- 
dows? Was her pillow wet with her tears — was she 
sobbing, perhaps, even as she slept? or was she lying 
awake, looking with dry, burning eyes into the darkness ? 
In any case she was lost to him — lost forever ! and he — 
was Mme. Roudoff’s affianced husband ! 


CHAPTER XXVI 


“ha ME IS best” 

Ruth and Heniy started that same evening — they were 
already gone when Anthony scanned the windows of the 
rooms they had occupied. Henry’s first glance at Ruth’s 
face, on his return to the hotel, had told liim that things 
were not well with her ; and he was pondering in silence 
over her demeanor and endeavoring to guess what had 
occurred, when she astonished him by announcing briefly 
and imperiously her intention of at once setting out for 
home. Then he could not resist a stammering query : 

“ Has not Anthony called ? Have you not come to anj^ 
arrangements ? ” 

“We have arranged to part,” said Ruth. “ Don’t look 
at me so ! ” she added irritably. “ Don’t speak to me ! I 
can’t bear it.” 

She actually stamped her foot. Henry, startled and per- 
turbed, made no further remark, and set about prepara- 
tions for their hasty flight. 

During the long hours of the ensuing journey they 
scarcely spoke to each other. Henry, looking at the young 
face opposite to him, so white in the uncertain light, its 
apathetic misery contrasting so pitifully with its beauty, 
felt his heart burn with fierce resentment against the man 
who had wrought such havoc. But for Anthony, Ruth 
would still be happy, merry, ignorant of evil, the joy and 
pride of an honest home — and now' she w^as going back 
to announce her disgrace. She w^as innocent still — thank 
God ! she had passed unscathed through an ordeal which 
would have destroyed a weaker nature ; but, though she 

214 


HAME IS BEST 


215 






was white of heart and pure of mind as ever, she had been 
robbed of her maidenhood, deluded with a mockery of 
wifehood — that which should have been the crown of her 
woman’s life had been made the seal of her dishonor. 

Several little circumstances combined to make their sad 
homeward progress even more distressing than it need have 
been. J ust as a wounded limb appears to receive a larger 
share of raps and friction during the day than the sounder 
portions of one’s anatomy, it appeared to Henry that the 
most trifling incidents of their journey conspired to increase 
the soreness of Ruth’s heart. By what unlucky chance, to 
begin with, did Roland Shireburn chance to stroll past 
their hotel that evening, at the very moment when Henry 
was helping Ruth into the fiacre ? 

Deuce take the fellow ! Henry’s face still burned as he 
remembered his astonished, impudent gaze. 

“ On your travels again ? ” he said, raising his eyebrows. 

“Yes, my cousin and I are returning to Alford.” 

He had jumped in, banging the door to after him, and 
congratulated himself in having got out of the difliculty 
rather neatly for a man too sincere to be able in an ordi- 
nary way to deal promptly with an equivocal position. 
But after a pause Ruth had said decisively : 

“ Mr. Alford, you should not have told an untruth. I 
am not your cousin, and you must not say so any more.” 

At the station, again, why should that idle lad have 
begun to whistle the very tune played by the band a few 
hours before, when Ruth had first descried Anthony from 
the balcony. Ugh ! how the shrill notes haunted one ! 
Surely they must pierce Ruth like so many knives — but she 
had made no sign, though Henry glanced toward her, 
every nerve quivering in unison with her pain. In the 
train, too, what evil fortune led the stupid, detestable Eng- 
lish bride and bridegroom to seek out their carriage, and 
to regale them, of all people in the world, with a sight 
of their foolish young happiness ? How often they had 


216 


A DAUGHTER OF THE SOIL 


clasped bands surreptitiously, and eyed each other with 
hateful, idiotic sentiment, bubbling over all the time with 
tender reminiscences — and how proud the little blue-eyed 
bride was of her wedding-ring ! 

Henry, looking at the long, slender hands lying loosely 
in Ruth’s lap, had seen that under the close-fitting glove of 
the left hand no circlet was defined. 

Only once, however, did any change come over the 
impassive sorrow of her face. Their travels were almost 
over, and they were rushing swiftly through English 
fields and woods ; the only other occupants of the carriage 
being an old couple whom Henry had before noticed at 
Dover. Sturdy old people of the well-to-do, mercantile 
class, returning to Manchester, as they informed Henry 
with the guileless garrulity of their kind, after a month’s 
trip to the Continent. 

“We ’ad to come back for a particular occasion,” said 
the old lady, with a glance at her husband. 

“Just so,” assented he, chuckling. “Must be at home 
to-morrow.” 

Henry did not feel inclined to make any enquiries, and 
the pair settled down with evident disappointment in their 
respective corners. The old man presently snored ; and 
Henry rustled his paper with some indignation ; but pres- 
ently desisted — Ruth was not asleep. 

By and by they stopped at a station. The old gen- 
tleman sat up, yawned, rubbed his eyes, and looked 
out. 

“ ‘ Cheap Trips,’ ” he began, spelling over an advertise- 
ment on the wall opposite, “‘on Wednesday the 12th, 
Thursday the 13th ’ — I thought to-morrow was the 13th.” 

“It says Thursday, there,” returned his wife, suddenly 
very wide awake. “ And to-day’s Thursday.” 

“ It’s a mistake,” said the other. “ I’m sure it’s to-mor- 
row. To-morrow will be the 13tli, sir, won’t it ? ” address- 
ing Henry. 


HAME IS BEST 


217 


(( 


fi 


‘‘ No,” responded Alford, “ this is the 13th, Thursday — 
to-day.” 

“ To-day ! ” echoed the pair both together, and they 
looked at each other, and after a moment’s pause the old 
man said : 

‘‘ Give us your hand, my dear. Our wedding-day,” he 
explained, looking round. “ Thirty -five years — and never 
a day that I wished it undone. Never a day, I may say, 
that we didn’t get on better.” 

Henry gazed at the fat old hands clasping each other, 
and then at the honest, good-natured old faces. The 
husband was beaming — there were tears in the wife’s 
eyes — then he glanced apprehensively at Ruth, and saw 
her face glowing and quivering behind her veil. 

Well, it was over at last, and they found themselves on 
the platform of their own station. The solitary cab stood 
there as usual — the cab which had conveyed Ruth to the 
train a few days before. 

“ I shall walk,” she said quietly, when Henry would have 
assisted her to enter it. “ I would rather walk, please. I 
can send for my things this evening.” 

Then she held out her hand in silence, looking at him 
for a moment ; her eyes soft as they had not been since 
Anthony left her. 

“ Good-by,” she said falteringly at last ; “ you did all 
you could. I have not thanked you, but I — I feel ” 

She could not complete the sentence. Henry wrung her 
hand, endeavoring to convey into the pressure all that he 
dared not say. 

Now she was alone in the familiar by-path which was a 
short cut to the Warren Farm. It was but a little way to 
traverse, and she wished it had been longer ; though she 
was so weary in mind and body. The ground seemed to 
heave beneath her tired feet, her aching limbs vibrated 
still with the motion of the train ; in her ears sounded the 
monotonous noises of wheels or paddles — she had been 


218 


A DAUGHTER OF THE SOIL 


travelling incessantly for the last few days, with that one 
brief interval of stormy pain, and yet it seemed to her that 
the quiet farm-house, the kind and cheerful home faces 
were more terrible than any thing she had yet to encounter. 
Her father’s loud greeting — his cordial, astonished wel- 
come — oh. Heavens, how could she bear it ! 

“ What, thou’rt back, my wench ! ” He would be glad 
to see her — glad ! She fell sideways against the hedge 
with a sudden dry sob. Oh, if she could die — die there in 
the fields — if God would take her before she told her 
father. 

She suffered herself to slip down to the bank beneath, 
and lay there for a minute, looking up into the blue, clear 
sky as though expecting a miraculous bolt to fall on her in 
answer to her voiceless prayer; her hands clutching the 
rank grass, her breath coming pantingly. And then a 
lark’s song rang out overhead, and she sprang to her feet 
as though she were stung, and pursued her way like one 
driven, flying from recollections more maddening than the 
anticipation of future pain. 

This was her father’s land now — she paused, looking 
round her with feverish dread. No — there was no one 
about. Ah, to be sure, it was the dinner-hour ! They 
were cutting the clover, she saw — and that was surely Joe 
Winstanley’s machine and team of roans, yonder in the 
corner of the field. It was, of course — her father had 
helped him last week, he was lending him a neighborly 
hand now, for the weather was unsettled. These thoughts 
flashed through Ruth’s mind even as her practised ejm 
took in the details of the scene. She proceeded cautiously 
now — some of Winstanley’s folk might be about and might 
see her — there must be some one in charge of the machine, 
some one lying probably in the shade on the other side of 
the hedge — she did not want any stranger to catch sight 
of her and proclaim her arrival before she had seen her 
father. 


HAME IS BEST 


219 






Here she was at last — at home ! Through the open 
door she could hear the sound of clattering plates and 
jovial voices. She crept behind a stack out of sight of 
those within ; from the noise and bustle she could tell that 
her father was entertaining several people. She would 
wait a little — they would soon return to the field now ; 
she could not go in till they were gone. 

That was Nancy Winstanley who spoke last — she had 
probably come to help Barbara in her hospitable duties — 
and farmer Joe, himself, was there, and old Tom Lupton, 
her father’s greatest crony, and several more — she identi- 
fied them by their voices. She leaned wearily against the 
stack — oh, if they would go, and let her creep indoors and 
up to her little room. 

Now there came a shufiling of feet, and pushing back of 
chairs. 

“ Coom, Joe, another gill for luck’s sake. Barbara, fill 
up. Now, Tom — I know thou’rt alius dry. Coom, lads, 
we’s have a wet to finish wi’.” 

Those were her father’s hearty, cheery tones. 

“ Well, neighbors; here’s wishin’ thee luck, an’ ’ealth, an’ 
prosperity.” 

That was Joe, and now old Tommy chimed in : when 
would they have done ? 

“ ’Ear, ’ear. ’Ealth an’ ’appiness to ’ee. Bob — an’ same 
to thy Ruth.” 

“ Ah, we mun drink th’ wench’s ’ealth. Here, Barbara — 
fetch down yon bottle. Nawe — noan o’ thy waale — now 
then — glasses round. Eh, we mun drink her ’ealth gradely 
style — we mun, that.” 

The listener without caught her breath during the 
silence which ensued, a silence engendered by surprised 
approval of Bob’s liberality, and broken only by the clink 
of glasses. If they knew ! 

I won’t say but what it was a bit of a trouble to me,” 
went on Sefton, “ as hoo should be for leavin’ whoam 


220 


A DAUGHTER OF THE SOIL 


again. I’d welly made up my mind as boo’d stop for 
good, yo’ knowen. But theer — boo were i’ tb’ reet when 
all’s said an’ done. ‘ I’m gooin’ to my ’usband,’ boo says — 
an’ boo seemed that pleased I couldn’t find it i’ my heart to 
gainsay ber. It’s a mis’rable thing for a young lass same 
as ber to be parted fro’ her ’usband — it is, for sure — an’ if 
tbey’n happen bad words one wi’ t’other, it’s as well fur 
’em to mak’ friends.” 

“ Ah, ’tis, lad — ’tis,” came Tom’s husky tones. “ Mon 
an’ wife thou knows — eh, ’t’ud be cur’ous if they was niver 
to fall out — my word ’t would be downright onnat’ral ! 
An’ though Mester Anthony an’ thy Ruth is not happen 
same as gradely village folk, I doubt they’n found out thot 
for theirsel’s. Yo’ mun fall out — an’ yo’ mun fall in again — 
and thot’s matrimunny.” 

“ Yigh,” said Bob ; “ thou’rt reet. Tommy, an’ I will 
say’t fur Mester Anthony. He mayn’t be th’ usband I’d 
ha’ picked fur my wench — I’d ha’ bin as well pleased if hoo 
hadn’t have looked so high ” — the note of pride which 
crept into his voice pierced Ruth’s heart. “ He may ’ave 
his faults — I wunnot say but what he ’as. But he thinks a 
dale o’ th’ lass — eh, he does ! He sets that store by her, 
yo’d fancy hoo were the Queen of England — terrible fond 
of her, he is. Well, they’n come together again, an’ I’m 
glad on’t.” 

“Eh, thou may say so, owd bird,” commented Joe Win- 
stanley approvingly. “ Coom, we’s drink ’er ’ealth an’ his 
too. Now, lads, be ready. Coom ; Mester and Missus 
Clifton ! Long life, ’appiness, an’ prosperity — an’ may we 
soon be gathered together on another j’yful occasion. A 
kirsening, I shouldn’t wonder ! Come — long life to ’em ! 
Hip, hip, hip ! ” 

“ Hooray ! ” cried the chorus of voices, male and female ; 
the formula was repeated, and the guests were standing 
waving their glasses and inflating their lungs in prepara- 
tion for a final outburst, when a rushing figure broke 


HAME IS BEST 


221 


te 


?» 


through the circle, making its way with extended arms to 
where Bob Sefton stood. 

“Oh, father, stop them ! — stop them ! They will drive 
me mad ! I’m not his wife.” 

She was in his arms now, clinging to him with all her 
failing strength. 

“ Send them away, father — tell them I’m — I’m not Mrs. 
Clifton. I thought I was — but he had another wife alive 
when he married me. I went back to him — when I heard 
she was dead — but — he doesn’t want me now. I’ve no 

husband — I Oh, father, father, forgive me ; I’ve 

brought shame on you ! ” 

Her voice trailed away in an inarticulate murmur ; she 
hid her face on his shoulder, and her clasp tightened round 
his neck. 

A dead silence ensued : the neighbors first looking at 
each other aghast, and then staring with starting eyes and 
gaping mouths at Farmer Sefton. For a moment the old 
man was incapable of a word, but presently looking round 
with a certain indescribable dignity, he folded his arms 
about his daughter. 

“ Well, lass,” he said, “ if thou hasn’t a husband, thou’s 
a feyther. Thou’s a feyther, see. Niver fret thysel’ — 
feyther’s alius fain to see thee.” 

He paused and cleared his throat : 

“ Alius fain to see thee,” he repeated, “ an’ — an’ proud.” 

He sent another challenging glance round, and fell to 
stroking Ruth’s soft hair. 

Barbara suddenly flung her apron over her head, with a 
loud snuflle ; but otherwise no one spoke or stirred. After 
a moment or two, however, old Tommy Lupton, who was 
accustomed to come to the front on trying occasions, being 
renowned for his tact and wisdom, uttered an extraordinary 
sound between a cough and a groan : 

“ Well, neighbor,” he observed, “ though this here’s what 
yo’ may call unexpected, it’s happen all for th’ best. Thou’d 


222 - 


A DAUGHTER OP THE SOIL 


ha’ been terrible ’onely i’ th’ long winter evenin’s wi’ nobry 
nubbut owd Barbara for company, an’ th’ lass ’ll soon con- 
tent hersel’ — hoo will — thou’lt see — an’ when all’s said an’ 
done hoo’s as well rid o’ yon. Eh, mon ! but he mun be a 
terrible raskil to put sicli a deceit on a decent wench.” 

“He’s a dom villain!” chimed in Joe Winstanley, 
thumping the table with his heavy fist. “ He’s thot ! 
Mester Anthony or no Mester Anthony. Poor wench ! 
he is a villain ! ” 

The veins on Bob’s forehead swelled and his face, already 
red, grew purple, but he did not, as his cronies expected, 
endorse or echo their sentiments. It had gone too deep 
with him for that. With his stricken child in his arms, he 
could no more have cursed her destroyer than he would 
have sworn at the ravisher Death, had he looked upon her 
in her coffin. 

He glanced from one to the other of the familiar, com- 
miserating faces without flinching, and after a pause, with 
a queer little one-sided jerk of his head, indicated the door. 
They gaped at him, uncertain of his meaning ; and he, nod- 
ding again, pointed with his thumb, with a gesture which 
they could not mistake. 

They filed out obediently. Tommy endeavoring to cloak 
the awkwardness of the situation by remarking that he 
wouldn’t be surprised if it coom on smudgin’ rain afore 
owt was long, and the others making a great clatter with 
their heavy shoes, and noisily coughing with the same 
good-natured intent. 

“ Barbara,” said Farmer Sefton, when all had with- 
drawn except the old woman, “clear out, wilta? And 
shut door arter thee.” 

The tone was too authoritative to be disregarded, and 
Barbara, dropping her apron, shuffled away in high 
dudgeon. 

“Now they’re all out o’ th’ road, my wench,” said Bob 
tenderly, “ there’s nobbut feyther ’ere. Thou needn’t 


HAME IS BEST 


223 


« 




think shame o’ showin’ thy face. Feyther ’ll stan’ by 
thee.” 

Now that the strain of keeping up a brave front before 
his cronies was gone, he looked old and broken. The 
ruddy color went out of his face, giving place to a gray 
whiteness ; tears came into his eyes, and his big loose 
under-lip trembled. 

‘‘ Eh, whativer mun I do ? ” he muttered to himself. 
“ Hoo’ll break her ’eart. Eh, I’d welly as soon ha’ seen her 
i’ her grave ! ” 

The big shaking hand which had been stroking her hair 
now began to pat her shoulder soothingly — as a mother 
might comfort a sobbing babe. 

“Theer now — theer, my lass. Give over. We’s — we’s 
be reet enough — thou an’ me — thou was alius feyther’s lass, 
thou knows — alius feyther’s favry^^e. Thou’lt content thy- 
sel’ wi’ me — wunnot thou ? Thou’lt bide wi’ feyther now. 
Eh, we’s be as happy ! ” said gaffer, in a choking voice, 
while the tears rolled down his cheeks. 

Ruth, lying in his arms, felt vaguely comforted. She 
had her father still — he would stand by her, he wanted 
her. Something of the old childish feeling of absolute 
faith and dependence returned to her now, as she felt the 
familiar caress and heard his soothing tone. Suddenly 
raising herself, she took his face in both her hands as she 
had done so often in blythe bygone days, and tender, broken 
words came from her ; her lips in this supreme moment 
unconsciously shaping themselves to the dialect which 
they first learned to babble. 

“ Eh, daddy ! Thou’rt good. My old daddy — I’ll alius 
be thy lass — i’ll bide wi’ thee ! ” 


CHAPTER XXVII 


PHILOSOPHY 

It was with some embarrassment and a good deal of 
reluctance that Henry prepared for the inevitable explana- 
tion with his mother. Her wrath and surprise had been 
extreme when the recent expedition had been mooted ; 
what would she say to the result ! 

To his astonishment, however, after a few amazed inter- 
jections when he first hinted at the condition of affairs, 
she listened to his recital in pensive silence. After a 
pause, during which Henry, in his pained shame, had 
averted his eyes from her face, she heaved a deep sigh 
and crossed her hands on her lap : 

“Well, Henry, perhaps it’s all for the best.” 

“ Mother ! what do you sa}^ ? ” 

“ I say, my dear, that very likely it’s all for the best. 
Marriages of that kind — real marriages, I mean, of course 
— very seldom turn out well, and yov^ll nodding 

sagely, “ that Ruth herself will come to think so. Indeed 
she’s too sensible not to look on the matter in the right 
light.” 

“ My dear mother, you don’t know what you are talking 
about. Surely there could not be a more miserable position 
for any girl — especially a girl so proud and upright as 
Ruth.” 

“Henry,” retorted Mrs. Alford oracularly, “depend 
upon it, I am right. She will get over it — and probably 
marry some nice respectable man in her own position, and 
be far happier. My dear Henry, you really don’t under- 
stand people of that kind ; things don’t trouble them as 

224 


PHILOSOPHY 


226 


they would you know. They think nothing of — well, 
what we should consider drawbacks to a girl. Don’t you 
remember Jack Billington, and how poor Mr. Pennington 
argued with him when he asked him to put up the banns, 
and how at last, poor man, with tears in his eyes, he told 
him — all about the girl he wanted to marry. ‘Ah,’ said 
Jack, ‘Fve yeard thot a two-three times. And yo’Il shout 
us o’ Sunday, parson, wunnot yo’ ? Same as I axed yo’ ? ’ 
He didn’t mind, you see.” 

“Upon my word, mother, if you go on like that, I shall 
begin to think you don’t mind. Is it possible you don’t 
see what a disgraceful affair this is ? Even putting poor 
Ruth out of the question, can’t you realize what an awful 
thing it is for Anthony to have done ? Do you know 
that, if Ruth chose to prosecute him, he might be con- 
demned to penal servitude for this ? ” 

“ You needn’t shriek at me, Henry. Really I have 
never known you to excite yourself so. I am quite sure 
Ruth would never think of any thing so foolish and 
unkind. It would do her no good, and would show a very 
nasty spirit on the part of the daughter of such an old 
tenant of ours. As for Anthony — I washed my hands of 
him when I first heard he contemplated making this low 
marriage — and now that it seems it is no marriage at all, 
well, really, I can’t help thinking it is better so. I do, 
indeed. And now, tell me — when you took her to him 
he didn’t seem inclined to — ah, really marry her, did he ? 
He had got over the fancy, I suppose. Just give me that 
thing there — no, that — no, not the paper-knife. I wishjoM 
would not stare at me in that idiotic way : I want my 
Jcnitting. You know, Henry, it was a most ill-advised and 
quixotic proceeding on your part ; and whether you like 
it or not, I repeat that I think Anthony showed more sense 
than I gave him credit for — really^ Henry ! ” 

The old lady suddenly dropped her knitting and stared 
with a flushed and astonished countenance at her son as 


16 


226 


A DAUGHTER OF THE SOIL 


he stalked across the room. Henry had actually let fall 
a naughty word — a very naughty word — and now went 
out, banging the door after him. 

The village people discussed the case with equal philos- 
ophy. There were at first a great many sympathetic 
enquiries at the Warren Farm : and not a little disappoint- 
ment was felt at the taciturn attitude assumed by all its 
inhabitants. Curious matrons, pausing, hand on hip, to 
ascertain ‘‘ However in th’ name o’ Fortwi* it all coom 
about,” felt baffled and indignant when Barbara replied 
that nought was never named to her about it ; Luke had 
never any thing to say at the best of times, and Maggie 
could only gratify them by long-winded repetitions of 
such details as they already knew. Ruth, herself, kept 
almost exclusively to her room, and as for poor old Bob, 
the neighbors knew not what to make of his newly 
acquired reticence. Bob was one with whom, as a rule, 
it was quite possible to ‘‘ make free.” 

The subject of Ruth’s marriage he had, of old, been 
quite willing to discuss, and even with regard to his pri- 
vate purse — the point of all others generally to be ap- 
proached with caution and reserve — he had shown himself 
handsomely communicative. People knew that Farmer 
Sefton ‘‘hadn’t done so bad wi’ th’ farm, takin’ one year 
wi’ another”; they heard that squire had knocked a tidy 
bit off the rent, for improvements carried out by the 
tenant — they had even heard Bob mention one or two 
successful investments of his, and a man “ couldn’t be no 
fairer than that,” it was universally allowed. But now — 
not a word on the most exciting topic which had ever yet 
aroused the curiosity of a village community ; only the 
shortest and most unsatisfactory answers being vouchsafed 
to their diligent queries whenever an answer was returned 
at all ; honest old Bob most frequently shouldering past 
the enquirer with a silent glare. 

Even Barbara in vain endeavored to break through this 


PHILOSOPHY 


227 


new-found reserve, being repulsed with a fierceness which 
astonished as much as it offended her. 

Dunnot coom moiderin’ me ! ” gaffer said one day, 
pommelling the table with his big brown fist. “Thou’s 
yeard what th’ lass towd us fust off, an’ thot ought to 
satisfy thee. Hoo said hoo wasn’t Missus Clifton, didn’t 
hoo ? — well, then, hoo isn’t Missus Clifton. But hoo’s my 
Ruth as how ’tis. If thou can mak’ a shift to howd thy 
tongue I’d be obleeged to ’ee — an’ if thou connot — keep out 
o’ my road, thot’s all.” 

Yo’ll be givin’ me notice next,” grumbled Barbara. 
‘‘ Me as has wortched for yo’ an’ done for yo’ all they years, 
an’ bin same as a mother to 3"o’r Ruth. But I tell yo’, 
Mester Sefton, yo’ can notice me if yo’n a mind, but I’m 
gooin’ to bide at Warren Farm till yo’ carry me out feet 
first.” 

Gaffer was visibly affected by this speech, and though 
he had no answer ready beyond a faltering, ‘‘Nayjnaj^ 
we’s not goo so fur’s that,” he threw, during the course of 
the evening, several deprecating glances in Barbara’s 
direction, which seemed to petition for forgiveness ; and 
when she, softened by these blandishments, and, moreover, 
genuinely moved by his distress, endeavored to console 
him by preparing his favorite dish for supper, he evidently 
thought she was heaping coals of fire on his head. 

“ Thou’lt ha’ me marred an’ spoilt wi all thej'- dainty 
nifles,” he said diffidently. 

“ A mon mun heyt — trouble or no trouble,” returned the 
old woman, with affected heartiness, A mon mun heyt to 
live, yo’ knowen, an’ yo’ scarce ’ad a bite to speak on at 
dinner-time.” 

“I haven’t mich ’eart to heyt, see thou, Barbara ?” said 
Bob, shaking his head, and screwing up his mouth into a 
round dolorous o. “ I keep thinkiri’ o’ th’ poor wench i’ 
her chamber yonder, an’ ’t seems as if my mate ’ud welly 
choke me.” 


228 


A DAUGHTER OF THE SOIL 


Barbara surveyed him with her arms akimbo. ‘‘Well, 
gaffer, see yo’ : if yo’ get agate o’ clemmin’ yo’sel, yo’ll be 
ill, for sure, an’ whativer ’ull our Ruth do then ? Hoo’ll be 
fair distracted. If I’re yo’, I’d get all ’at I could into me. 
I would trewly — so’s to keep strong an’ ’earty fur th’ lass’s 
sake. Eh, if I could tell her to-neet as yo’d made a proper 
supper, boo wouldhe pleased.” 

“ Does thou think it, lass ? ” asked Bob dolefully. 

He stuck his fork into a huge morsel, and paused. 

“ Think it ? I’m sure on’t,” retorted Barbara. 

“ Well, then,” said Bob meekly ; and falling to straight- 
way, he attacked the fare which she had set before him 
with a valor which rejoiced her inmost soul. Her old face 
creased itself into a thousand wrinkles of satisfaction ; her 
eyes followed the progress of the farmer’s fork, from well- 
filled plate to capacious mouth ; her jaws unconsciously 
moved in unison with his. 

“Sit thee down an’ get summat into thysel’,” he ob- 
served presently, pausing with his mug of ale half-way to 
his lips. 

“Nay, I’ve had my tay, an’ I dunnot fancy aught else 
to-neet. Theer’s moore i’ th’ dish, gaffer, an’ it’s a sin to 
waste it.” 

“Should I raly have another bit, thinks thou ?” asked 
Bob, who had been polishing his plate. 

“ Yigh, I do think so. It’s yo’r duty, gaffer, I tell yo’.” 

“Theer’s nought i’ th’ world as I wouldn’t do fur our 
Ruth,” sighed Sefton, extending his plate pensively. 
“ Nought i’ th’ wide world.” 

“ Well, yo’ mun bear up, yo’ knowen. Fur th’ lass’s 
sake. Eh, whatever would hoo do wi’out yo’ ? ” 

“Eh, Barbara, an’ whatever should we do wi’out thee, 
owd lady ?” said gaffer, resting his knife and fork on end, 
and looking up with moist eyes. “Eh, we’d be fair lost. 
Thou keeps us a’ together, an’ stirs us up, an’ keeps up a 
man’s ’eart when he’s down, an’ thot. Thou’s a gradely 


PHILOSOPHY 


229 


owd wencb, Barbara, an’ so I tell thee,” cried gaffer enthu- 
siastically. 

“ Ah, but I mun keep out o’ yo’r road, munnot I ? ” 
retorted Barbara, with an unsteady laugh ; and then she 
blinked her eyes, and sniffed a little. “ Eh, mon, I know 
yo ^ — dunnot look so scared. I can tell yo’ dunnot mean 
one-half o’ what yo’ say — yo’r bark’s a long way wuss nor 
yo’r bite, gaffer. Well ! happen I’ll not get notice this 
time.” 

“ Nawe, not this time — if thou’lt behave, thou knows.” 

Master and servant grinned, and nodded at each other 
with a little one-sided jerk of the head which betokened the 
best possible understanding ; and by and by Barbara re- 
moved the dishes with a good deal of unnecessary clatter, 
and Farmer Sefton made a great parade of lighting his pipe. 

A few days afterward she met him descending the stairs, 
stepping cautiously, with an oddly shaped bundle under his 
arm. He looked anxiously from right to left, and finally 
beckoned her into the parlor. 

It was so early that the old-fashioned shutters were still 
closed and the curtains drawn, but enough light penetrated 
through the chinks to reveal gaffer’s portly form and 
solemn face. 

“ What han yo’ gotten theer ? ” enquired Barbara, in 
awestruck tones. Bob unfastened his bundle, and spread 
its contents on the table. 

“ It’s they cloo’es, lass,” he whispered ; “ they dress- 
cloo’es, thou knows, es I ’ad fur our Ruth’s weddin’. I can- 
not thooal th’ seet on ’em, an’ I’m bahn to mak’ a shift to 
get rid on ’em.” 

‘‘Reet!” responded Barbara. “We’s mak’ a bonfire 
yonder, t’other side o’ th’ orchard, an’ we’s ha’ them brunt 
afore th’ lass is awake ! ” 

‘‘ Brimt ! ” ejaculated Farmer Sefton, forgetting to whis- 
per, in his scandalized amazement. “ Eh, woman, whativer 
art thou thinkin’ on ! Dost thou fancy I’m sich a noddy as 


230 


A DAUGHTER OF THE SOIL 


to mak’ a bonfire o’ these here fine cloth cloo’es ? Why, 
jist feel o’ th’ stuff ! It’s mich same as satin.” 

“ Well, an’ if it is same as satin, yo’d never ha’ th’ ’eart 
to weer ’em,” retorted Barbara. “ I’d scrat’ ’em off yo’r 
back pretty quick, if yo’ did. Eh, my word, I would ! I 
could never look at yo’ in ’em. They mind me o’ th’ poor 
lass’s misfortun’ — I couldn’t stond ’em.” 

“No moore can I, I tell ’ee,” cried Bob, “but I’m noan 
balm to brun ’em, for all that. Eh, dear, thou needn’t think 
it — but I’m gooin’ to town this forenoon, thou knows, an’ 
so I’ll mak’ a parcel on ’em,” here gaffer dropped his voice 
pathetically, “ an’ tak’ ’em to a slop-shop.” 

“ Ah, yo’ con do that,” assented Barbara approvingly. 
“ It’s a good notion. But yo’ll niver get yo’r money back, 
yo’ knowen — nawe, nor th’ half on’t.” 

“ Eh, well ! ” sighed her master, with a lengthening face. 
“ I mun do th’ best I can — an’ thot’s all. Troubles never 
cooms single, they say.” 

“ Yigh, an’ it’s true. What’s getten th’ ’at, gaffer ? 
Yo’ll be takin’ it, too.” 

“Th’ ’at,” said Bob hesitatingly. “Well, I didn’t 
reckon on sellin’ th’ ’at, thou sees. Th’ ’at isn’t so par- 
tic’lar, like. Eh, once yo’ get yon ’at i’ shape an’ ready to 
don, it’s mich same as another ’at. An’ it’s an uncommon 
cur’ous thing — reet down clever, thot ’at is. Ah, I’ve sat- 
tled to keep th’ ’at.” 

“Well, I wonder at — that’s all as I can say ! ” cried 
Barbara, with energy. “If it wur me as ’ad a lass served 
th’ gate yon chap — he is a chap an’ a bad chap, fur all he’s 
gentry — served our Ruth, I’d think shame o’ weerin’ a 
nasty newfangled ’at as I’d bought me to weer when hoo’re 
wed. Eh, if yon ’at was mine I’d tak’ it out an’ donee 
on ’t.” 

Bob rubbed his chin deprecatingly. Barbara’s words 
struck home, but how could he bring himself to part with 
this most cherished of his treasures ? 


PHILOSOPHY 


231 


“ Pd never goo fur to weer it, thou knows,” he repeated 
weakly, “ an’ it seems a pity when all’s said an’ done — 
but theer — we’s see.” He rolled up his parcel hastily and 
made for the door. “ Happen next time I’m in town ” 

Seeing Barbara’s relentless face, he retreated without 
pursuing the question further. As time passed, however, 
and the hated object remained intact in his cupboard, 
Barbara took the law into her own hands, with the result 
that one day gaifer came down with a very red face, hold- 
ing a battered object in his hand. 

“ This ’ere ’at,” he said, in tones tremulous with anger ; 
“ soombry’s bin an’ made an end on’t. Th’ spring’s broke, 
an’ it won’t goo into shape no ways.” 

Barbara put down the pan she was cleaning and faced 
him defiantly. 

‘‘ Well, I’m glad on’t.” 

‘‘Thou’rt glad on’t, art thou? Well, an’ thot’s a nice 
thing to say. I’d ha’ thowt thou’d have had a bit more 
feelin’. Happen’ thou’s had a hand i’ th’ wark ? Bar- 
bara ” — in a terrible voice — “ out wi’t ! Hast thou bin 
doncin’ on this ’ere ’at ? ” 

‘‘ Nawe, I haven’t, so theer ! Doncin’ indeed ! An’ me 
at my toime o’ life, an’ rheumatic an’ all — it’s likely ! ” 

She did not consider it necessary to add that on the pre- 
ceding day, having carefully arranged it in position on a 
chair, she had sat down on it. 

“Well, it’s done fur, thot’s what it is,” cried gaffer; 
and he flung it across the kitchen. “ But if it mak’s thee 
’appy, theer’s nought to be said, I reckon. Maggie, pick up 
yon, an’ chuck it on th’ dust ’eap.” 

He went away, Barbara looking after him, half regret- 
fully ; she had not expected her master to be so “ taken 
to,” but there was no use crying over spilt milk. And 
when all was said and done it was a sin and a shame for 
gaffer to keep yon queer-lookin’ thing that hadn’t brought 
no luck — neither to him, nor th’ lass — that was sure. 


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A DAUGHTER OF THE SOIL 


So the gibus hat was bestowed on a scarecrow, Maggie 
having reverently invested the most needy “ boggart ” in 
the neighborhood with this last remnant of her master’s 
finery. Gaffer consented thereto with a kind of grunt. 

“ Ah — as well mak’ some use on’t ! ” for like a true 
North-countryman he never sacrificed thrift to sentiment. 


CHAPTER XXVIII 


SUNDAY VISITORS 

The improvement in Farmer Sef ton’s spirits was, in 
spite of all Barbara’s amenities, only transitory ; as he said 
himself, “ How could a man keep any ways up when his 
wench was breaking her heart ? ” Poor Ruth did indeed 
seem like the shadow of herself ; even her bodily strength 
appeared to be sapped, and the determined spirit which had 
hitherto upheld her was unequal to cope with the existing 
condition of things. She passed the first few weeks after 
her return home in a state of physical and mental collapse. 
Barbara could not understand it. That Ruth, the most 
stirring and active of lasses, should lie abed till half the 
morning’s work was done — not sleeping, no — but staring 
straiglit in front of her, putting off the exertion of rising 
and facing another day as long as she possibly could ; that 
when she came languidly down stairs she should sit with 
folded hands, watching the women-folk bustle about, but 
not offering to do a hand’s turn herself; that when her 
father and Barbara pressed her to eat she should comply, 
obediently enough, but evidently without appetite or enjoy- 
ment, all this caused old Barbara to feel both puzzled and 
aggrieved. And so it came to pass that one Sunday after- 
noon when Ruth’s aunt, Mrs. Mary Tyrer, drove round in 
her shandry, accompanied by her daughter Jinny Snippet, 
Barbara, being alone in ‘‘ the room,” was unable to restrain 
her irritation. 

“ Th’ gaffer’s just stepped out. Mistress Tyrer, but he’ll 
be in to’s tay afore owt’s long, an’ Luke’s powlerin’ about 
some wheel's — he’ll not be fur off. I’m pleased yo’n coom — 

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A DAUGHTEE OP THE SOIL 


eh, I am ! an’ so will oiir mester be. Eb, I welly think 
some times as all this trouble ’ll be th’ death on him. 
Our Ruth, see — ah, hoo’s up yonder in her chamber — eh, 
my word, he does tak’ on about her, he does. It’s mich if 
I can get him to heyt, an’ he’ll sigh an’ he’ll fret, an’ he’ll 
sit lookin’ at her, an’ shakin’s yead till he very near drives 
me silly.” 

Here Barbara got up and set an antimacassar straight 
on a chair ; then she wiped her eyes with a corner of her 
apron, and sat down again. 

Meanwhile Mrs. Tyrer had been removing her bonnet 
and ‘‘ dolman,” as she was particular in designating her 
heavily jetted Sunday mantle, folding her gloves, and 
smoothing over her sleek iron-gray hair. Then seating 
herself, and shaking out her skirts, she prepared to give 
Barbara her undivided attention. 

“ Yo’ never say ! ” she ejaculated. “ What’s getten th’ 
lass ? Hoo should be reet fain to be rid o’ yon ne’er-do- 
weel. See yo’, Barbara, I never did howd wi’ our Bob’s 
ways wi’ Ruth. He was alius that foolish — an’ thot set-up 
about her. What ever did th’ wench want wi’ nuns’ con- 
vents ? See now what’s coom on’t ! I alius towd him hoo 
was sure to coom to harm. An’ lettin’ Mester Anthony 
coom danglin’ arter her, him as we’d alius yeard sich tales 
about ; eh, I mind how often I said to him, ‘ I wonder at 
thee. Bob, I do raly.’ But he never took no notice.” 

Jinny Snippet, a pert, buxom, sandy-haired damsel, with 
a fringe almost dipping into her round blue eyes, and 
a silver locket four inches in diameter hanging round her 
neck, remarked, as she threw her feathered hat on to the 
table, that she never could see what there was in Mester 
Anthony for Ruth to be so set on him. Him with that 
brown face, an’ all, an’ gettin’ on for forty years of age, 
folks said. 

“ I says to my brother,” put in Mrs. Tyrer, sucking in 
her breath with comfortable appreciation of her own 


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235 


unfailing wisdom and righteousness, ‘‘ I says to him when 
they was first startin’ coompan3"-keepin’ : ‘ Never tell me,’ 
says I — them was my very words ; ‘ never tell me as 
Squire Anthony means fair by thy lass. If he does,’ says 
I, ‘ why doesn’t he get married in’s own church, an’ not i’ 
yon popish chapel ? ’ I says.” 

“Ah,” chimed in Jinny. “ If he’d ha’ got Mr. Penning- 
ton to marry ’em, ’t’ud ha’ bin different. I know I’d never 
think mysel’ half wed if our parson didn’t do th’ job.” 

“Ah, Jinny,” retorted her mother, “ we’s have all fair 
an’ square, when thoiCrt wed ! Well, but, Barbara, Ruth’s 
never frettin’ hersel’ for yon, still ? ” 

“ Well, hoo’s frettin’ hersel’ for summat — an frettin’ us 
too, I tell yo’. Mistress Tyrer. Hoo’s gotten feyther so’s 
he’s very near broken-’earted. I wish to th’ Lord yo’d 
speak to her, ma’am. Hoo’d happen ’earken to yo’. Tell 
her,” said Barbara, pausing with her apron half-way to her 
eyes, “ we’s be all i’ we’re graves together soon, if hoo 
doesn’t shap’ different.” 

“ Well,” said Mrs. Tyrer, slowly hoisting herself out of 
her chair, “ I can but speak to her same as if hoo were 
my own lass — an’ I am th’ nearest hoo has arter her feyther 
— her feyther’s only sister, yo’ knowen. I’ll speak to her — 
’tis but reet. ‘ See thou, Ruth,’ I’ll say, ‘ thou’rt neglectin’ 
thy duty shameful. All as is past an’ gone shouldn’t 
trouble thee now. If thou’s happen done wrong i’ takkin’ 
up wi’ Mester Anthony — as were alius leet-gi’en an’ mis- 
cheevious sin’ he were a lad — he’s gone, an’ thou’rt rid on 
him. An’ it’s downright wicked^ I’ll say, ‘for thee to be 
frettin’ thysel’ for a man as thou didn’t ought to think on.’ 
I’ll say that straight out,” cried Mrs. Tyrer, pausing tor 
breath. 

“ Ah, do,” said Barbara approvingly. 

“ I will,” pursued Aunt Mary, warming to her subject, 
“ and I’ll say,” — again assuming a severe air and speaking 
in a declamatory tone — “ ‘ I wonder thou doesn’t think 


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A DAUGHTER OF THE SOIL 


shame o’ sich carryin’s on. I’d lia’ thowt thou’d ha’ had a 
bit more pride. Coom down an’ do thy work,’ I’ll say. 
‘ Fettle up th’ place — let’s see thee a bit house-proud again, 
an’ see if thot won’t fetch all thy maggots out o’ thy 
yead.’” 

“ Eh, an’ so’t would,” agreed Barbara. “ ’Tisn’t ’ealthy 
for a lass same as her to be startin’ lazy ways at her time 
o’ life. Her as used to be agate afore owt was stirrin’ — 
why, you’ll never see her so mich as tak’ a dish-clout i’ her 
hand now.” 

“ Well, I’ll put it to her plain,” said Mrs. Tyrer, still 
lofty and severe. “ ‘ What about feyther ? ’ I’ll ax her. 
‘ Thou thinks happen as he hasn’t got no feelin’ because he 
doesn’t barge at thee. But be has, I tell thee — he’s thot 
upset an’ miser’ble he scarce knows whether he’s on his 
yead or on’s ’eels. Thou should tak’ thowt fur ’im, if thou 
doesn’t for thysel’ — thou’lt break’s ’eart afore thou’s done, 
if thou doesn’t tak’ heed to thysel’ an’ mend thy ways.’ ” 

‘‘Ah, tell her thot,” said the old woman. “ See yo’ now. 
Mistress Tyrer, goo reet upstairs an’ tell her— an’ we’s hap- 
pen get soom good on her. Goo reet up, ma’am. You’ll 
find her settin’ by th’ winder very like.” 

“ Should I raly goo up, think yo’, Barbara ? ” enquired 
Mrs. Tyrer, with a sudden change of tone. “ I’ve never 
set een on her sin’ hoo coom back, yo’ known. Yo’d hap- 
pen best call her down — or else nip up to say I’m coomin’.” 

“ Call her down ! eh, woman, an’ mich good thot ’ud do. 
Hoo’d never coom. Hoo wmnnot see nobry. Eh, poor 
lass ! ” with a sudden change of tone, “ hoo hasn’t the 
heart, see yo’. Go yo’r ways up, ma’am, do, an’ tak’ her a 
bit easy, to start wi’.” 

Mrs. Tyrer, after hesitating for a moment, went creaking 
up the narrow stairs. Barbara stood looking after her a 
little pensively, till she heard Ruth’s door open ; then she 
turned to Jinny : 

“ It’s to be ’oped as your mother wunnot be too ’ard wi’ 


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237 


th’ lass,” she said. “ Hoo’s in trouble, when all’s said an’ 
done.” 

Jinny laughed. “ Eh, Barbara, you’re a caution ! ” she 
said. my mother does sauce her a bit yo’n nobbut 

yoursel’ to blame. But never fret — my mother never says 
so mich as hoo says hoo’ll say.” 

With this lucid statement the damsel caught up her hat 
and approached the door. 

‘‘ I’ll walk a bit o’ th’ road toward th’ lane end an’ see 
what’s getten Uncle Bob,” she observed. 

“ Or Luke,” responded Barbara dryly. “ Happen Luke 
’ud be moore to yo’r mind, Jinny. He’s a bit yoonger if 
he isn’t so mich livelier — an’ he’s no kin to yo’ — eh, yo’ 
could happen mak’ shift wi’ him to pass th’ time.” 

“ Ho kin ! ” ejaculated Jinny, turning her head, and 
reddening slightly, “ why, he’s mich same as a brother.” 

“ A funny mak’ o’ brother,” commented the old woman. 
“ Ah, put on yo’r fine ’at, do ! It’s a pity it isn’t a cap 
an’ then yo’ could set it at him. Hoo’s an impident little 
snicket,” she added to herself as Jinny made her egress 
with an indignant bounce, ‘‘but I fancy oioc? lass, 2iS 
hoo ca’s me, was a match for her for once.” 

Meanwhile Jinny, curiously enough, did chance to stroll 
toward the farm-yard, at the farthest end of which she 
descried Luke’s lanky form. He was contemplating a 
certain interesting old pig with a portly figure and a very 
retrousse nose. Jinny approached, and looked over his 
shoulder. 

“ Ah, it’s yo’, is it ? An’ where ’ave yo’ coom from ? ” 
he enquired. Then taking the straw which he had been 
chewing out of his mouth, he pointed it at the sow. “ Hoo’s 
a beauty, isn’t hoo ? ” he remarked. 

“ I like th’ little black Berkshires best,” answered Jinny, 
“ We’n got Berkshires up at our place.” 

“ Han yo’ ? ” said Luke. “ I don’t care for ’em mich 
mysel’. They dunnot seem to fat same as these do. Eh, 


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A DAUGHTEE OF THE SOIL 


this here’s a splendid sow. The litters we’n ’ad from her ! 
Ye wouldn’t believe ! The money we’n made out of her ! ” 

Jinny glanced from the matron in question to the row of 
shippons in the rear of the pig-sties, and thence to the well- 
filled stack-yards, the great barn, overflowing with golden 
store ; and a thought which had been simmering in her 
mind all day found utterance. 

‘‘Uncle Bob must be very well off — Ruth ’ll be a rich 
woman some day.” 

“ Hoo isn’t one as ’ll feel the benefit of it, then,” re- 
torted Luke rather contemptuously. “Hoo’s uncommon 
poor-sperrited, Ruth is.” 

Jinny walked on a few steps, pausing opposite a shed 
where a couple of little calves were enclosed. 

“ Suck, suck ! ” she cried, thrusting her stumpy pink 
fingers through the railing. “ These is pretty-shaped fel- 
lows. You’ll soon be startin’ coompany-keepin’ wi’ Ruth 
again, I should think.” 

“ Eh ? ” queried Luke. “ Why, Jinny ! Ruth ’ud 
never think o’ marryin’ again.” 

“ An’ why not ? Hoo’s never bin married at all — not to 
say properly married. If hoo’d a grain o’ sense boo’d mak’ 
haste an’ get her a rale ’usband so as folks ’ull give over 
talkin’. Ay, I’ll soon be expectin’ to hear yo’ shouted.” 

“Me an’ her?” quoth Luke meditatively. “ Well, I 
dunno. ’T’ud seem queer soom way. I’d keep thinkin’ as 
th’ t’other were raly her ’usband. It ’ud alius seem so, to 
me, yo’ know.” 

“ Well, it ’ud be very silly of yo’,” retorted Miss Snip- 
pet. “ Mester Anthony an’ her’s no more man an’ wife nor 
you an’ me’s brother an’ sister, Luke.” 

“We’re a kind o’ brother an’ sister, aren’t we?” said 
Luke. 

“Thot’s what I said to Barbara just now, but hoo 
laughed an’ said it ’ud be a funny kind. We had different 
fathers an’ mothers, yo’ know.” 


SUNDAY VISITOES 


239 


‘‘That’s true,” replied Aughton indifferently. 

“ So we canH be any kind o’ relations.” 

“ Nawe,” said Luke. “ I s’pose not.” 

“ Why, don’t you remember?” said Jinn}^ suddenly very 
sprightly and ingenuous. “ Bob Winstanley an’ his wife 
were just the same as you an’ me.” 

“ Well, an’ thot was a funny thing,” remarked the 
youth. “ For ’em to get wed, yo’ know. Why, you an’ 
me ’ull be thinkin’ o’ keepin’ coompany next.” 

Jinny laughed uproariously. “Ah, who knows what 
chance I might have had, if it hadn’t ha’ been for Ruth.” 

“ Yo’re a likelier lookin’ lass nor Ruth when all’s said an’ 
done ! ” observed Luke, appraising her calmly. 

“Ah, but look at the fortin’ Ruth ’ill have,” said Jinny, 
sidling a little nearer him, nevertheless. 

“ So she will,” agreed Luke ; “ but yo’re the likeliest, 
Jinny. Yo’ are that.” 

The girl chirruped to the calves as though she had not 
heard him, but presently looked round with a titter. 

“ Folks ’ull say yo’re a noddy if yo’ coom courtin’ me 
when Ruth’s to be ’ad.” 

“ Who says I’m bahn to coort yo’ ? ” enquired Luke, 
with rather disconcerting surprise. 

“ Nobry said it — yo’ said it yo’rsel’ ! ” cried Jinny in con- 
sequently. 

“ Nawe, nought o’ th’ soort. I said yo’re a likely lass, 
an’ so yo’ are.” 

Jinny chirruped to the calves again. 

“ Not but what,” went on Luke gallantly, “ if I was to 
get agate o’ coortin’ I wouldn’t as soon keep company wi’ 
you as wi’ another lass, but I’m not thinkin’ on’t at th* 
present time. Not at th’ present time, yo’ see.” 

“ I s’pose yo’ think a body ’ll be willin’ to wait till yo’n 
made up yo’r mind — but happen you’ll find yo’r too late 
then.” 

“ I dunnot think nought about it,” retorted Luke bluntly. 


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A DAUGHTER OF THE SOIL 


Then, gazing at the girl’s flaming cheeks, he sucked his 
straw a moment or too and finally laughed to himself. 
“ Don yo’ know what I’m thinkin’ on now ? ” 

“Nawe, I dunnot — an’ I care nought,” returned Jinny 
pettishly. 

“ I’m thinkin’,” went on Luke, smiling still, and keeping 
his eyes fixed on her face — “ yo’ know th’ apple-tree as 
grows left ’and corner of our orchard, yon ?” 

Jinny nodded, surprised and interested in spite of her- 
self at this sudden change of subject. 

“ Well, th’ apples on that tree an’ yo’r cheeks is just same 
color.” 

“ Well, I never ! ” laughed the girl, recovering her good- 
humor. Her white teeth flashed as she laughed, and 
two little dimples suddenly appeared in the cheeks in 
question. 

“Just th’ very same !” pursued Luke, delighted at his 
own brilliancy. “ Ha, ha, ha, th’ very same ! ” 

“ I s’pose, if yo’ was a bird, yo’d like to peck at ’em,” said 
Jinny, who was well versed in the rules of rustic flirta- 
tion, and began to think it might be worth while, after all, 
to give Luke a little training therein, unpromising as he 
had at first appeared. But Luke was an unsatisfactory 
pupil. He still stared at Jinny, it is true, but he took her 
remark quite literally. 

“ Nawe,” he said. “ I never cared so mich fur apples. 
Nobbut baked yo’ known — I could fancy ’em then. I’d a 
dale sooner have a good pear.” 

“ If yo’ was a bird, I meant,” said Jinny angrily, and 
then she tapped an unoffending calf on the nose. “ Coom — 
let’s goo our ways in. Th’ tay ’ll be cowd.” 

“ Jinny,” said Luke, as he slouched after her ; “ han yo’ 
got a chap now? Yo’ an’ Joe Gammon’s not keepin’ 
coompany no more, are yo’ ? ” 

“ What’s that to yo’ ? ” cried the girl, whisking round. 

“ Eh, I nobbut axed. Soombry towd me as yo’ wasn’t. 


SUNDAY VISITORS 


241 


Well, ril tell yo’ summat. ’T wunnot be long afore yo’n 
getten another young mon, Jinny. Nay, it wunnot.” 

They were walking side by side now, rather close 
together. 

“Eh, Luke ! ” said Jinny, “what dun yo’ say thot fur?” 
“ It’s true,” retorted Luke. “ Yo’ll see ! ” 


10 


CHAPTER XXIX 


LAST LINKS 

When Mrs. Tyrer entered her niece’s room Ruth was, 
as Barbara had opined, sitting by the window, looking list- 
lessly out into the little orchard. She had grown thin — 
very thin — and pale too, and her eyes looked sunken. 

“ Eh, my wench ! ” said Aunt Mary, staring at her hard 
as she advanced. “ I ’ad to coom up an’ see thee, sin’ thou 
wouldn’t coom down. An’ how art thou, Ruth, love ? 
Nobbut poorly, I doubt.” 

Ruth rose and kissed her, and dutifully placed a chair. 
Mrs. Tyrer sat down, gazing at her with round melancholy 
eyes, and breathing hard. Her black silk dress creaked as 
her portly bosom rose and fell, and the genuine distress in 
her face intensified as the moments passed. 

“Eh, lass, thou’s fell away awful,” she sighed, after a 
time. “ Eh, thou’rt — thou’rt nobbut a shadder. It’s 
enough to break a body’s ’eart to look at thee.” 

She sniffed in an ominous manner, and presently draw- 
ing from her pocket a handkerchief, redolent of pepper- 
mint, wiped her eyes, and sobbed. 

“ Enough to break a body’s ’eart, it is. See thou, Ruth, 
it ’ll kill thy feyther.” 

Ruth’s face changed, and she caught her breath with a 
little gasp. “ Oh, Aunt Mary, how can I help it ?” 

“ An’ that’s true, love, I dunnot raly know how thou can 
help it,” sobbed Aunt Mary. “ Dear heart, I dunnot raly 
know how thou con.” 

Her broad, good-humored face went into her handker- 
chief again. Mrs. Tyrer was very like her brother in 

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243 


appearance, and to the full as soft-hearted. The proverb 
which Barbara had applied to her master would have also 
held good where his sister was concerned. Mrs. Tyrer’s 
bark was certainly much more alarming than her bite ; at 
the first sight of her niece’s pale face all desire to deliver 
the lecture whicli she had prepared left her. But presently, 
endeavoring to regain some degree of firmness, she sat up- 
right, mopped her eyes, and rolled her handkerchief into a 
hard, tight ball ; ready for use if absolutely required, but 
not sufficiently inviting to encourage further ‘‘giving 
way.” 

“See thou, Ruth; when all’s said an’ done theer’s no use 
i’ makin’ matters war nor what they are. No use i’ th’ 
warld ! Thou’rt frettin’ thysel’ to death, see, fur what 
connot be mended now ; an’ thou’rt frettin’ feyther so as he 
con scarce howd up ’is yead. It ’ull not do thee so much 
good t’ ’ave him laid up, thou knows — an’ trewly he’s bin 
sadly warsenin’ ever sin’ thou’s corned back.” 

“ I’m sorry,” said Ruth, passing her hand over her brow. 
“ I’m afraid I’ve been very selfish.” 

“ Naj^ my lass, I wouldn’t goo fur to say selfish — eh, 
dear o’ me, nawe, not selfish. Bless thy ’eart, thou couldn’t 
be selfish if thou tried. But when a body’s i’ trouble, thou 
sees, it isn’t alius yezzy to tak’ thought fur other folks — 
an’ thou didn’t jest chance to notice how feyther’s failed 
this month or two.” 

“ Oh, Aunt Mary, you don’t think he’s really ill ? ” cried 
Ruth piteously. “ What shall I do ? How was it I didn’t 
see it ! ” 

“ Nay, never tak’ on so, love. He’ll be reet enough, 
once he thinks thou’rt better — thou’ll see. Coom down 
wi’ me to tay, an’ talk to him a bit, an’ he’ll be as fain — 
my word, he’ll scarce howd himsel’. An’ if I were thee, 
Ruth, I’d get to my work again — up an’ down the house, 
thou knows — thou’ll be a lot better fur ’t, an’ it ’ull seem a 
dale more nat’ral to thy feyther. See — it’s gettin’ time 


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A DAUGHTER OF THE SOIL 


now fur thee to shap’ to summat if thou has coom whoam 
fur good.” 

“I will,” said the girl. “You are right, aunt. “I’ll 
set to work — I should have done it before — and I’ll come 
down with j^ou now.” 

“ Thot’s reet ! ” cried Mrs. Tyrer joyfully ; restoring her 
handkerchief to her pocket as she spoke. “ Coom, theer’s 
a good wench — thou’ll find thysel’ better for’t, see if thou 
doesn’t. Coom, m}^ lass, cheer up ! Things is never so bad 
but what they met ha’ bin war — an’ happen all ’ull turn out 
better nor thou thinks fur. Eh, I mind when poor Snip- 
pet wur sowd up, I thought there was never sich a misfor- 
tunate craitur as mysel’ i’ th’ wide warld — an’ not so lung 
arter he was took an’ I was left wi’ a rook o’ little childer, 
an’ nobry to do fur ’em but mysel’. An’ thot was a dale 
war, thou knows — eh, thou may think I made sure then 
theer was no one wi’ sich trouble as me ! An’ afore th’ 
year were out Tyrer an’ me was shouted, an’ I’ve bin as 
coomfortable ever sin’ ! I tell thee, lass, Tyrer’s as good 
a mon as ever a woman need be teed to. So theer, see ; 
never lose ’eart ! ” 

She rose now and smoothed down her skirt, her face 
aglow with honest satisfaction ; and led the way down 
stairs, overjoyed at the successful issue of the interview. 

As they entered the living-room Luke and Jinny, who 
had been standing by the window, darted suddenly apart, 
with sundry blushes and giggles. 

“ Jinny, what hasto agate ? ” said her mother, looking at 
her dubiously for a moment, but finally laughing. “ Get 
away wi’ thee ! — goo an’ tell Barbara ” — with triumpliant 
enunciation — “’at Ruth an’ me has corned down fur we’re 
tay. Well, Luke,” she added, as the girl disappeared, 
“thou an’ our Jinny’s gettin’ meeterly thick, it seems.” 

“ Seems so,” said Luke, grinning and glancing curiously 
at Ruth, who smiled at him in return. 

“Well, to be sure!” ejaculated Mrs. Tyrer. She was 


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not ill-pleased. Luke was known to be in the receipt of 
good wages, and stood, moreover, high in her brother’s 
favor. Presently Bob Sefton’s burly form was seen cross- 
ing the yard. 

“ We’s goo an’ meet him,” said Mrs. Tyrer. And out 
they went, the old farmer’s face, which had been doleful 
enough when he had first come in sight, brightening as he 
descried his daughter. 

“ ’Ere’s thy Ruth coom to sup tay wi’ us,” announced 
Mrs. Tyrer. 

‘‘Eh, Ruthie?” said Bob, looking at her incredulously. 
It was the first time since her return that Ruth had 
appeared when there was “ company.” 

Meeting her reassuring smile, his doubtful expression 
changed into rapture ; and Ruth felt amply rewarded for 
the effort she was making. Many times, during the meal 
which ensued, the sight of her father’s joyful face was a 
reproach to her for her tardy effort to rouse herself ; and 
she resolved that her personal sorrow should no longer 
overshadaw the lives of those she loved. 

Even Luke seemed overflowing with good humor this 
evening. Ruth was both amused and touched as she 
noticed his eagerness to supply her wants, and observed 
the genuine pleasure which overspread his usually stolid 
countenance when she consented to help herself from one 
of the various dishes which he perpetually propelled 
toward her. Poor Luke ! he had a good heart after all. 
Doubtless his own happiness gave him a certain sympathy 
for her misery. It would be nice if Luke married Jinny. 
Father would be pleased. So Ruth glanced kindly at Luke 
as she accepted the piece of bun-loaf which had been for 
some little time hovering over her plate, balanced on the 
point of a knife ; and then she smiled absently on Jinny — 
and did not notice how Jinny tossed her head. 

At last the guests departed ; and Farmer Sefton and 
Ruth saw them off from the gate. 


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A DAUGHTEE OP THE SOIL 


When they were out of sight Bob tilted his hat back on 
his head and surveyed his daughter with an anxious smile : 
his face all ready to brighten itself if Ruth’s depression 
seemed again about to overwhelm her. 

“ Thou’rt a lot better to-day, my wench, aren’t ’ee ? ” he 
said timidly. 

“Yes, father. Dear father, you thought you’d lost your 
lass, didn’t you ? All this time, I mean. But you haven’t, 
you see. She’s come back, and she means to stay now.” 

“ Well, an’ that’s good news ! ” said Bob hesitatingly; 
his face was still puckered up — eyes and mouth round, 
with a certain remnant of anxiety. “ Thou means it, does 
thou, Ruthie ? ” 

“I do indeed.” 

“ Coom, then,” returned the farmer, “ coom, that’s bet- 
ter,” and he smiled broadly. 

“ It is a lovely evening,” said Ruth ; “ let us go for a 
little walk and you shall show me the crops.” 

“ Th’ crops ! Eh lass, I think thou has bin lost all tliis 
time. Why, corn’s all cut an’ carried — the whole on it is, 
an’ we didn’t have no turmits this year — an’ th’ arter-grass 
is stacked yonder at th’ Six-bits, too fur to goo to-neet. 
Timer’s nobbut th’ taters left.” 

“ Well, let’s look at them,” said Ruth, passing her arm 
through liis. 

“Coom, then, let’s look at th’ taters. My word, an’ 
thou’rt a funny wench ! Th’ tops is all died down, thou 
knows — we’s be gettin’ ’em up soon. But coom — we’s 
have a look at ’em, if that’s all.” 

They strolled through the familiar fields, Ruth conscious 
of an odd sense of unreality as she noticed the yellow and 
brown country. It was autumn already ; the air was crisp, 
and the leaves of the berry-laden hedge-rows sere and few. 
Yonder were stretches of russet stubble where the golden 
wheat had waved, and this brown expanse striped with 
. lines of withered stalks was the potato-field, green, it 


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seemed, but yesterday. All the homely farm routine had 
been going on just as usual while she sat apart with folded 
hands. She had not noticed the various stages ; she had 
asked no questions, though tliis was the important part of 
a farmer’s year ; she had paid no heed to what her father 
told her — shown and indeed felt no interest in his success. 
Poor father ! and he had never said a word. But she 
would make up for it now ; she would atone to him — not 
by expressing regret or beseeching forgiveness, which 
would but serve to puzzle and depress him further, but by 
devoting herself to him heart and soul as in old times. 
She must try to put it all away from her ; all the cruel joy, 
the bitter sorrow, the love inseparable from both, all must 
be alike wiped out. She must fall into the old familiar 
ways again ; try to feel absorbed in the simple duties which 
once had been enough to fill her days ; live her girl’s life 
once more. Ah, never that ! Never a girl again — never 
more free and young and happy. 

“It’ll be a heavy crop, this will,” observed Bob. “If 
we’n any luck we ought to do well with our taters this 
year. They’re scarce, thou knows, all round about — it 
seems a wonderful thing as this here field should ha’ ’scaped 
so well. Well, now thou’s seen taters, wheer art thou fur 
next ? ” 

“ Let us go round the shippons, now ; all around — we 
haven’t had a walk for ever so long — you and I.” 

“An’ that’s true,” beaming on her ; “neither we have, 
lass. True enough ! But we’re havin’ a rare one now — 
we are, fur sure. Same’s owd times. Coom and have 
a gradely good look at the new heifer. Hoo’s a beauty, 
hoo is, an’ cornin’ on wonderful sin’ I bought her. Eh, 
hoo’ll mak’ a splendid cow next year if hoo goes forrard as 
hoo’s shapin’.” 

The new heifer was inspected, also the dairy-cows, the 
pigs and calves ; even the cart-horses, enjoying their Sab- 
bath rest in the field behind the orchard. Poor old Sefton 


248 


A DAUGHTEE OF THE SOIL 


Stumped along beside his daughter, pointing out the various 
points of each cherished animal, his broad good-tempered 
face all agrin, but a slight undercurrent of perplexity 
mingling with his joy. This was his Ruth, sure enough ; 
and she was walking with him and talking with him just as 
she always used to do. Here was he, showing her every 
thing and telling her every thing, and here was she, listen- 
ing and laughing — laughing out loud, as she had not 
laughed for weeks, and looking quite bright, and yet : 

“ ’Tisn’t quite same as owd times neither,” he thought to 
himself now and then. ‘‘Nay — not same as owd times. 
But happen we’s work round i’ th’ end. Time’s a wonder- 
ful thing, an’ th’ Lord’s good.” 

He cheered up altogether as this two-fold reason for con- 
fidence occurred to him, and entered the house in buoyant 
spirits. 

“ Why, here’s Luke wi’ a great posy in’s coat. Michael 
mas daisies, I b’lieve, an’ thot theer little dahlia as was 
coomin’ out so nice just by the door. What did thou pick 
it for, an’ it not full blown ? Eh, they lads an’ lasses they 
never can see a flower growin’ but what they mun goo an’ 
pluck it.” 

“ It’s fur Ruth,” said Luke, hauling the posy in question 
out of his button-hole — a somewhat difficult feat, owing to 
its size and the stoutness of the string with which he had 
made it secure. 

“ Oh, thank you, Luke ! ” cried the girl, smiling, and fas- 
tening the oddly shaped trophy in her dress. She really 
was quite touched at the little attention. Luke grinned, 
and opened his mouth as if he were going to speak ; but 
apparently changing his mind, closed it with a snap, 
assumed a solemn expression, and stalked into the house. 

A few hours later Ruth sat by her window again, look- 
ing out into the night, thinking and waiting. At last the 
absolute stillness of the house betokened that everyone was 
asleep, and creeping softly downstairs she opened the back- 


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door and went out. The air was sharp, but clear and still, 
and the moon was shining brightly. Ruth walked briskly 
along, her way lying through lonely lanes and leading her 
across bare, bleak fields. No thought of fear occurred to 
her, though she had seldom been about so late, and the sound 
of her own footsteps and the rustle of her skirts broke the 
silence strangely. 

At last she reached her destination, the church at Brook- 
lands ; and climbing over the locked gate, and crossing the 
church-yard, made her way to the rear of the little build- 
ing, and knelt down close to the chancel-wall. She leaned 
her head against the rough plaster, and remained for a long 
time motionless, her heart beating loudly; she felt pitifully 
weak and afraid, now. Afraid, not of the loneliness of 
the spot, but of her own solemn purpose. 

She had come here to do a thing which must be done, 
but which cost her sorely in the doing. She was going to 
put Anthony out of her life, to sever the last links which 
connected her with him ; and she would do it here, on this 
sacred spot, within the shadow of the church where she 
had pledged herself to cleave to him till death. Only here, 
it seemed to her, was it possible — only like this. The piti- 
ful little ceremonial which she was about to carry out 
seemed to make the actual break easier. Youth must 
always be doing — it is in later life that people learn to 
suffer with folded hands. Ruth was determined to cast 
away that which she felt to be a source of temptation, and 
there seemed to her to be a kind of sacramental virtue in 
the outward act from which she hoped to gather additional 
grace and courage for her difficult future. The thought 
had sustained her during her rapid walk hither ; but now 
that she found herself actually on the spot, she felt a sense 
of sudden desolation which robbed her of her strength. 
Presently rousing herself, however, she began to dig with 
a little trowel with which she had provided herself. She 
dug deep, and as close to the church wall as she could. A 


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A DAUGHTER OF THE SOIL 


gaping bole lay before her at last — a tiny grave— and draw- 
ing a little packet from her bosom she placed it at the 
bottom. She had already swept down some earth over it, 
when an uncontrollable impulse seized her, and she hastily 
snatched it out again, unfolding the wrappings and kissing 
their contents many times. The moonlight gleamed on 
them as she held them ; her wedding-ring, and the crucifix 
Anthony had given her. Even that must go — she must 
keep nothing — nothing that reminded her of him. 

As she kissed it she thought of his look on the morning 
he had pressed it to his lips, of his words : 

“ It was for your sake — is it not sweet to be loved as I 
love you?” And then, kneeling there, she shook like a 
reed in a sudden storm of passion. Was it not sweet ? 
Ah, God, yes — yes, it was sweet ! 

“ Oh, Anthony, you loved me then — you did love me — 
you loved me then ! Oh, Anthony, I told you to go out of 
my sight. My God, my God, if I could only see him now 
— as he used to be — just for one — one moment, before I 
have done with him for ever.” 

Again and again she kissed the little cross, rocking to 
and fro. “ For your sake now, Anthony, for yours — be- 
cause you loved me then.” 

She paused, looking fixedly at the little cross clutched 
tightly in her fingers, and then her grasp relaxed, and she 
lifted it once more to her lips — this time very reverently. 

“ And now, my Lord and my God, I kiss it for your 
sake, because you died for me ! Forgive me — and help 
me to forget him. I pray now to forget him — after this 
night I will even pray for him no more. I give him up — 
to you. I place him in your hands. Oh, my Lord, you 
died for him too, — you died for him, too, — do not forsake 
him ! ” 

The little packet went once more into its grave, and the 
earth was pressed down and smoothed above it. Then 
Ruth rose and stepped back a few paces. Through the 


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stained glass window overhead she caught the glimmer of 
the sanctuary-lamp, beneath which she had so often 
breathed Anthony’s name. She had been kneeling at the 
altar rails yonder that first day when he had followed her 
into the chapel and asked her to pray for him, and from 
that time she had never suffered a sun to set without speak- 
ing of him to God. And now she had pledged herself to 
pray for him no more ! 

She flung out her arms toward the light ; 

“ Let my life be a prayer — since his name must not cross 
my lips ! My whole life — with all that I have to do and 
to suffer, I offer it for him ! ” 


CHAPTER XXX 


hexry’s “folly” 

One day, in early February, Ruth went to Little Alford 
carrying a store of good things for little sick Lizzie. She 
had, since that conversation with her aunt which had 
forced her to return to her former mode of life, devoted 
herself energetically to her customary duties ; and none 
appeared to her more imperative than this of succoring 
those in need. Nevertheless it was always difficult and 
painful to her to show herself in the village, meeting so 
many curious eyes, and causing, so she felt, so many 
gossiping tongues to wag with fresh vigor. To-day, it 
seemed to her, more heads than ever peered at her through 
small-paned windows and round half-opened doors ; and 
such of her acquaintance as she met face to face bade her 
good-day with an odd expression in which excitement was 
mingled with compassion. 

Her cousin Jinny Snippet almost ran against her as she 
approached. 

“ Hallo, Ruth ! ” she exclaimed. “ How art thou ? Eh, 
I didn’t look to see thee out to-day.” 

“Why not?” said Ruth, with a sudden tightening of 
the heart. “ Has any thing happened ?” 

Jinny looked astonished and abashed. 

“ Eh, nought, if thou’s yerd nought. Theer’s never 
mich stirrin’ here, thou knows. I thought happen thou’d 
yerd some news.” 

Ruth shook her head, and Jinny, after an embarrassed 
glance up and down the street, remarked that her mother 
would be waiting for her, and darted off. 

252 


HENEY’s “ FOLLY 


253 


Every one was strange to-day, Ruth thought ; even 
little Lizzie looked up at her from her pillows with loving 
compassion tinged with wonder; and the mother followed 
her to the door staring at her curiously the while. 

“ Yo’n not yerd no news, Ruth, I s’pose? Nawe, theer 
isn’t mich news t’ear — an’ what theer is, is happen none so 
good. But I wouldn’t tak’ on, Ruth, as how ’tis. What’s 
ended cannot be mended, as th’ sayin’ goes. Eh, happen’s 
all’s for th’ best i’ th’ long run. Well, an’ feyther’s well ? 
Eh, thot’s reet — thot’s reet. An’ yo’r goin’ yo’r ways a- 
Avhoam ? Good-day t’ yo’, Ruth, an’ thank yo’ — an’ dun- 
not lose ’eart, love.” 

Ruth gazed at her with questioning eyes. What had 
they all heard ? She would not ask. She turned and 
walked away slowly, because of her trembling knees and 
the sickeningly rapid beating of her heart. 

She had not made many steps, however, before Mary 
Waring darted out of her door- way and stopped her. 

“ Eh, Ruth ! Can yo’ look in a minute ? My mother’s 
that set on seein’ yo’ 1 cannot keep her quiet. Eh, theer 
weren’t no howdin’ ’er when hoo yerd as yo’ were i’ th’ 
village. Step upstairs, will yo’, jist for a minute — hoo’ll 
not keep yo’ long.” 

She seized the girl’s arm as she spoke, and after hanging 
back for a moment, Ruth suffered herself to be drawn in- 
doors and up the narrow stairs. She might as well know 
after all — she would have to know sooner or later — and 
Susan would tell her. 

Mrs. Waring was indeed sitting up in bed, her face 
crimson with excitement, her palsied hands extended. 

How are yo’, Ruth ; how are yo’, lass? Sit yo’ down. 
Well, an’ what say yo’ to this ’ere bit o’ news ? My word, 
I says to our Mary, ‘ Whatever will Ruth say ? Eh, what 
will hoo say ? ’ says I.” 

I haven’t heard the news,” said Ruth falteringly. 

“ Eh, thou never says ! Eh, Mary ! did thou ever year o’ 


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A DAUGHTER OF THE SOIL 


sich a thing ! Eh, I’d ha’ thought squire ’d ha’ towd yo’ 
first off. What, dunnot yo’ know as yon chap o’ yo’rs — 
Mester Clifton — ’as gone an’ gotten wed ! He raly ’as done 
th’ job this time. It’s some mak’ o’ foreign body as he’s 
takken up wi’ yonder — a black woman some folks say, but 
I could scarce b’lieve that. But he’s wed as how ’tis ” — 
raising her cracked voice triumphantly. ‘‘Th’ news come 
to th’ ’All yesterday an’ Mrs. Simmons — th’ ’ousekeeper 
yon, yo’ know — towd me her own sel’, an’ hoo ’ad it straight 
fro’ Missus Alford’s maid. Th’ owd lady were that sur- 
prised hoo shriked out loud when hoo read th’ letter. 
Some o’ th’ squire’s friends met Mester Anthony an’ his 
new lady somewheers in France or one o’ they places, an’ 
they’d ’so bin married above a bit, they said. Ah, I was 
surprised ! An’ yo’ didn’t know, Ruth. Eh, I raly thought 
squire ’d ha’ towd yo’ — but he’s not one as tak’s thought 
mich for nobry, I reckon.” 

Ruth rose and tried to say good-by in her ordinary tone, 
but her form swayed as she stood, and her voice shook. 

“ Why, yo’re never takin’ on about it, are yo’ ? ” cried 
Susan. “ My word, hoo’s all of a tumble, Mary ! Fetch 
her a sup o’ way ter. Eh, Ruth, I’d never gi’t a thought if 
I were yo’ — he’s a wastril, yo’ known, an’ an ill un at that. 
l*d never fret mysel’. Sit yo’ down a bit, an’ you’ll be 
better presently. Eh, theer’s a deal o’ lasses ’at has war 
trouble nor yo’, I tell yo’ ! Lasses ’at has no whoam to 
bide in when they’re i’ misfortun’. Yigh, an’ some on ’em 
dursen’t goo back to feyther and mother — they’re that 
fleyed, yo’ known. Eh, I mind a poor lass ’ere i’ th’ village 
once, Maggie Lannock her name were — hoo’d been ’ticed 
away, yo’ know — her chap were a married man too, an’ he 
give her th’ bag arter a while, an’ went back to’s missus. 
An’ when hoo’d getten’ whoam her mother shut door i’ her 
face, an’ t’ feyther called her ill names, an’ towd her hoo 
met goo t’ th’ workhouse. So poor Maggie ’ad to goo 
theer till hoo were ower her trouble. But th’ little one 


henry’s “ FOLLY 


255 


died — that were one good thing — an’ hoo went to sarvice 
an geet wed i’ th’ end to a butcher-lad. So all’s well as 
ends well, yo’ see. So dunnot lose ’eart, lass. I could 
a’most fancy it were poor Maggie’s misfortun’ ower again 
when folks gets agate o’ talkin’ about yo’. Both o’ yo 
takkin’ up wi’ married men, yo’ see. Eh, I were tellin’ our 
Mary to-day about Maggie, an’ hoo says, ‘ I shouldn’t 
wonder if Ruth didn’t get wed to soombry afore long,’ 
says hoo. ‘ ’Hoo’ll not be so partick’lar now, an’ theer’s 
mony a daycent lad as ud’ think none th’ war on her for 
her misfortun’.’ Why, yo’re not off, are yo’, Rutli ? Eli, 
what’s all yo’r hurry ? My word, Mary, hoo’s off wi’out 
so mich as good-day t’ yo’.” 

“ Hoo’s fair runnin’ now,” said Mary, peering out of the 
tiny window. “ Eh, mother, I fancy hoo were a bit vexed — 
hoo’s awful proud, yo’ known — an’ yo’ tellin’ her hoo’d 
very like do same as Maggie Lannock ! Hoo fancied, 
happen, as we thought hoo’d wed a butcher’s lad — an’ noan 
o’ their fambly ever had aught to do wi’ tradesfolk — nob- 
but Mary Tyrer — an’ hoo rued it, yo’ known.” 

“ Well, hoo met do war nor marry a dacent lad if he 
were i’ trade — ’t’ud be better nor frettin’ for gentry folk as 
dunnot want her. I’ve no patience wi’ sich nonsense ! 
Not as I howd mich wi’ town -folk mysel’, thou knows. 
But Ruth ’ll ha’ to give ower bein’ so tickle.” 

Ruth meanwhile did not slacken her pace till she found 
herself outside the village ; then she paused, trembling and 
sick with angry misery. 

Anthony was married — married to the woman he loved — 
a torturing pang of jealousy pierced her heart at the 
thought. He was happy, his wife triumphant, and she, 
Ruth — what was she ? A disgraced woman, a woman who 
had lost honor, and peace of mind, and her very self- 
respect. Even the poignant thought of Anthony’s marriage 
did not prevent her feeling the sting of Susan’s words, ‘ I 
could a’most fancy it were Maggie’s misfortun’ ower again.’ 


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A DAUGHTER OF THE SOIL 


Yes, she must expect to be looked on by the neighbors as 
such another outcast as the ignorant, erring heroine of Mrs. 
Waring’s tale. How could she blame them if they did not 
better discriminate ? Did not Anthony’s marriage show 
plainly how little he respected her — how trivial a thing he 
deemed the wrecking of her life ? Her suffering, her 
degradation were nothing to him — the union into which 
she had entered so solemnly did not count — it was an epi- 
sode to be dismissed from his memory, if indeed it were not 
already wholly forgotten. Ah, surely this marriage was all 
that had been wanting to make her humiliation complete ! 

Leaning against the wooden paling which bordered one 
side of the road, she buried her face in her hands, and 
groaned aloud. How was she to endure it — to live 
through it? 

Presently some one, walking rapidly along the footpath 
on the opposite side of the way, wheeled round to look at 
her, paused, and then crossed over. 

“ Ruth, is it you ? ” 

Ruth looked up, and the despair in her face wrung 
Henry Alford’s heart. He gazed at her for a moment with- 
out speaking, and presently said hesitatingly: 

‘‘ I was on my way to see you — to tell you ; but I see 
you have heard.” 

“Yes, I have heard.” 

There was a silence : Henry’s eyes filling, and his voice 
failing him for pity. How could he but be dumb in pres- 
ence of such awful pain ? He scarcely dared look at her — 
it was as though her bleeding, quivering heart were laid 
bare. The shame in her face smote him even more than 
the sorrow. That she should be humbled thus — Ruth, so 
innocent, so noble — that she should be so terribly punished 
for a sin that was not her own. 

“ Oh, Ruth, my poor child ! ” he faltered at last. 

She turned toward him quickly. “ Mr. Alford, what are 
you doing here ? You should not be seen with me. I am 


HENEY’S “ FOLLY 


257 


not fit company for any one. I am nothing, worse than 
nothing. Even the village people point at me as if I had 
been wicked, and they say — such horrible things. But no 
wonder, I can’t expect any one to respect me ! ” 

respect you, Ruth,” said Henry gently. “ I want to 
help you.” 

‘‘ You are very good,” said Ruth hopelessly, “ but no 
one can help me. Oh, can’t you see ? No one can help me 
but God. Even my poor father can do nothing.” 

“ But I,” resumed Henry, with the same tremulous 
gentleness with which he had first begun to speak, “ I could 
perhaps do more for you than your father. Ruth, dear 
Ruth, do not be startled ! My child, if you would give 
me the right to take care of you, I would be so good to 
you ! ” 

He took her hand timidly, but Ruth withdrew it, and 
once more turned toward him, her eyes dilated with 
incredulous wonder. 

“ If I would give you the right ? ” she said, almost in 
a whisper. 

“ If you would be my wife,” said Henry firmly. ‘‘ Then 
no one could despise you ; no one would dare to breathe 
a word against you. Oh, Ruth, think of it ; let me prove 
to the whole world how much I honor and love you.” 

* Still that same look of shocked surprise, as though she 
could scarcely believe she heard aright. 

“ You want to marry me ? Oh, no, you cannot really' 
mean that.” 

“ But I do. See, dear Ruth, I scarcely know how to put 
it to you — but— he is married, you see, he who wronged 
you, and you — you too, are free. If you trust me enough 
to come to me, I would try so hard to make you happy — do 
not be angry ! I know you think you can never be happy 
again, but let me try what I can do. I want,” he went on, 
a certain hesitating tenderness creeping into his voice, “ I 
want you just to give me leave to take care of you and 
17 


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A DAUGHTER OF THE SOIL 


protect you. A marriage with me, you know, would lift 
you out of all the shame and misery. People would 
see that I reverence you more than any woman in the 
world.” 

Ruth, looking away from him, did not see the strong 
constraint he was putting on himself, in order to lay the 
case before her dispassionately. She had not observed his 
increasing pallor, and heard, without noticing, the tremor 
in his voice. He continued brokenly after a pause : 

‘‘Would it not — after all — be some comfort to know 
that there was one person whose only thought was for 
you ? One who would come between you and the hard 
world — who would — be good to you, and cherish you, 
Ruth?” 

She drew a long breath. 

“I know you mean to be kind — but you don’t know 
how you hurt me ! ” 

Her face was crimson, and there were tears in her eyes. 

“ Oh, you do, you do hurt me — you make me feel so 
bitterly ashamed ! Don’t think me ungrateful ! I know 
it is out of the goodness of your heart you are doing this. 
I know you pity me.” 

“ I do more than pity you,” said Henry, “ I love you. 
Listen to me, Ruth ; I have loved you for many years — 
ever since you came home from school. I tried to conquer 
myself — yes, I will be quite candid — because I thought a 
marriage with you would be unsuitable in every way. In 
age, station, and religion we were so different — I thought 
it my duty to struggle with my inclinations and kept from 
you as much as I could. Nevertheless your marriage with 
Anthony was a terrible blow to me.” 

“ Stop ! ” interrupted Ruth peremptorily, “ I don’t want 
to hear any more.” 

“ But you must hear me,” cried Henry vehemently. 
“ I have kept silence all these years — I will speak now. 
I do love you, Ruth, deeply — deeply as a man can love. 


henry’s ‘‘ FOLLY 


259 


Have a little patience with me and with yourself ; think 
before you refuse me — take time to know me better.” 

Ruth suddenly shook off the hand which he had laid 
upon her arm, and burst into tears. 

“No, no — never again ! How can one love twice in 
one’s life ? Oh, do go away — you make me feel wicked ! 
I can never love any one hut Anthony — God forgive me ! 
only Anthony.” 

“ What ! ” cried Henry, “ you mean to say you love him 
still, though you know what he is — though he has treated 
you ” 

“ Oh, hush f do not let us speak of him ! I have tried 
to forget him — I have prayed, I have cut myself off from 
every thing that reminded me of him — but I carCt put him 
outside my life. I can’t, I can’t ! When you speak to me 
of love I feel he is there still — there in my heart ; do what 
I will, he is there ! ” 

“ Then, by Heaven, you shall cast him out !” cried Henry 
violently. “ This unworthy love shall not come between 
you and me, Ruth. A man cannot trample on himself for 
ever. I have feelings too, I have the right to be heard — 
you shall not silence me with his name ! I love you as 
passionately as he did, and more truly. If his memory is 
the only barrier between us, it shall be overcome. I love 
you, and I will have you ! ” 

The man was shaking in every limb — beside himself 
with the passion which had at length found an outlet. He 
came closer to Ruth and stretched out his arms. 

“ You shall love me yet ! ” he cried hoarsely. 

But his ardor had awakened an extraordinary anger in 
Ruth ; a repulsion which was plainly visible in her face. 

“ Never, never, never ! How dare you speak to me so ? 
You insult me ! ” 

Henry fell back, and his arms dropped : the white, 
shocked misery of his face smiting the gin with sudden 
compassion. 


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A DAUGHTER OF THE SOIL 


‘‘ I don’t mean to be unkind — but you must not say such 
things. I shall never love any one again — and it makes me 
feel, I don’t know what I feel — to hear you talk as if I 
could.” She stopped for a moment and went on piteously : 
“ I pray God to forgive me — I did not know how wicked 
I was — how weak ! People are right to scorn and despise 
me ! But I will pray and struggle still, and perhaps God 
will have pity on me and take all that displeases him out 
of my heart.” 

‘‘ And for me,” said Henry huskily — “ there is no hope ? 
This is your last word ? ” 

“ It is my last word ! ” said Ruth earnestly. “ Forgive 
me, and try to forget me.” 

He did not reply, and she walked away slowly, leaving 
him standing quite motionless with his head sunk upon 
his breast. 


CHAPTER XXXI 


EHEU ! 

Mbs. Alford, after vainly waiting tea for her son on 
the afternoon of his meeting with Ruth, had drank her two 
cups, and was meditating punishing him by sending away 
the tea-things, when he at length appeared. 

“ How late you are, Henry ! Every thing is cold, and the 
tea much too strong to be good for you. Shall I ask for 
some more ? ” 

“ This will do, thanks.” 

“Well, you don’t deserve to be pampered with fresh tea. 
My dear Henry, what is the matter? You look as if you 
had just come back from a funeral — a pauper funeral ; the 
most melancholy thing in the world, as Mr. Pennington 
says, except playing whist for penny points ! ” 

Henry sipped his tea without replying, and Mrs. Alford 
pushed back her chair, contemplating him in some anxiety. 

“ Any thing wrong, my dear boy ? ” 

“ Do you know that your dear boy is forty-two ? I have 
been reflecting about my age and many other serious mat- 
ters during a long walk — and now, if you like, I will tell 
you the result of my meditations.” 

“If you were a sensible man, they could have only one 
practical result, Henry. It is high time,” emphatically, 
“ for you to look out for a wife, my dear.” 

Henry put down his cup : he did not wince, and Mrs. 
Alford failed to see, in the half light, how pale he was. 

“ On the contrary, I have been thinking that, as I am 
quite determined never to marry, it is my duty to take 
steps to secure a successor to this property. Wait a minute, 

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A DAUGHTER OP THE SOIL 


mother,” as she was about to interrupt ; “ let me say what I 
have to say. The news of Anthony’s marriage to this for- 
eign woman confirms me in the opinion I had already formed 
that he is not fit to be master of Alford. She, certainly, 
would not be a suitable mistress for the old place — I heard 
about her at Spa last year. I do not choose, either, that any 
child of such a marriage — inheriting probably undesirable 
characteristics from both parents, and brought up Heaven 
knows how — should ultimately reign here. Anthony, him- 
self, before his pretended marriage to Ruth, urged me 
strongly to cut him and his off from the succession. 
There seems to me to be even more paramount reason 
now.” 

“ I must say,” remarked Mrs. Alford, ‘‘ though you are 
my son, you are the most irritating creature on the face of 
the earth ! If ever a man’s duty stared him in the face, 
yours does. Upon my word, I almost think Anthony with 
his three wives is better than you, but I don’t know which 
is the most provoking ! Here you are, the last scions of 
an historical family, and one of you won’t marry at all, 
and the other goes and makes two alliances at a time— one 
more disreputable than the other ! What are your inten- 
tions, may I ask, since this fine old place is apparently 
going a-begging, and it is evidently your wish to let the 
race die out ? ” 

Henry paused for a moment to allow his mother to 
recover herself in some measure after her little outburst, 
and then said quietly : 

“Tom Alford-Cobham has a lot of boys, hasn’t he ? I 
thought of adopting one of them ; rather a small one,” he 
added, smiling, “ that you and I could manage between us. 
We could bring him up according to our own notions, you 
know, and make sure of good principles being instilled into 
him from the first. We’ll make a model Alford of him,” 
drawing his chair nearer to that of the old lady, and taking 
her hand. “ And you know how often you have said it 


EHEU ! 


263 


would give you new life to see a child running about the 
house.” 

“ Yes, but I did not mean any body’s child, I meant your 
child,” sighed Mrs. Alford. Her face was a study. The 
new idea evidently caught her fancy, but at the same time 
she could scarcely bring herself to relinquish her long 
cherished hopes of a grandchild of her own. 

“ This wouldn’t be any body’s child — it would be Tom 
Cobham’s child.” 

“Are you really and truly determined to remain a 
bachelor all your days ? Supposing you do adopt a child 
and after a year or two come across some one you could 
take a fancy to, what then ? ” 

“My dear mother, if I were not quite sure of myself, I 
should not, of course, propose such a thing. But I will 
never marry — I have quite made up my mind.” 

“ Well, then — about Anthony: he is really one of the old 
stock, you see, and there does not seem to be any thing 
against this wife of his, or the Lymingtons would have 
hinted at it, wouldn’t they ? After all it seems a little 
hard to cut him off, just when he has settled down.” 

“I mean to do it all the same,” said Henry sternly. 
“There is no use in arguing that point. Let us dis- 
cuss my plan. The Cobhams have boys of all ages, I 
believe ? ” 

“ Yes, indeed they have, and fine boys too. Straight, 
well-made, handsome little fellows, with curly fair hair, 
and blue eyes.” 

“ Blue eyes ! ” echoed Henry. “ I thought they were 
dark, some of them.” 

“ Oh, no, my dear ! How could they ? Tom himself is 
sandy, you know ; and as for Emma, she has hair like lint 
and those chinaAAue eyes.” 

“ I should have liked the little chap to have brown eyes,” 
said Henry half to himself. 

“ What an extraordinary idea ! ” exclaimed his mother. 


264 


A DAUGHTER OP THE SOIL 


sitting upright and staring at him. “ You are certainly 
very odd, Henry ! Will you please tell me why f ” 

“ I don’t know,” laughing rather dismally, “ except that 
I have sometimes pictured to myself a child trotting about 
the house, or clinging to one’s finger, and it always had 
brown eyes.” 

“Then, my dear Henry,” said Mrs. Alford conclusively, 
“ depend upon it, if you have fancies like that, you are not 
meant to be a bachelor ! Do for goodness’ sake go and 
marry a brown-eyed woman, and give me a brown-eyed 
grandchild to dandle on my knee — and leave that warren- 
ful of Alford-Cobhams alone ! ” 

“How, mother, we have discussed my resolution often 
enough — do not let us waste any more time in argument. 
Will you write to Emma Cobham to-morrow and propose 
my plan to her, and ask if you can go there soon and choose a 
, future Squire of Alford ? Mind you pick me out a nice one.” 
^ ■ “ You talk as if it were a kitten or a puppy — however. 
I’ll do it, and I should think the Cobhams will be out of 
their wits with joy. They really are dear children, you 
know, Henry. There was a baby when I was staying 
there some years ago ; a sweet little thing, I remember. I 
should think it would be about the right age — if it isn’t a 
girl. I must get the old nurseries done up and see about 
engaging a nurse. Gilly I am afraid is too old, but she 
would be charmed to have a nursling again. You know 
she has been living all these years in hopes of your marry- 
ing. I wonder if that child was a boy ? It was a dear, 
with such pretty eyes. I like blue eyes best, myself. I 
wonder,” said Mrs. Alford, dropping her animated tone and 
gazing with a mystified expression at her son, “ I wonder 
what on earth, Heniy, made you think of a child with 
brown eyes.” Henry did not answer, and she continued 
after a moment, “ Yours are blue, you know — very dark, 
but still distinctly blue, and poor dear Lucy had eyes like 
forget-me-nots.” 


EHEU ! 


265 


“ People have strange fancies sometimes, you know,” 
said Henry. He got up and sauntered toward the door, 
pausing as he opened it to remind his mother to be sure to 
write to Emma to-morrow. 

“ Yes, unless you change your mind in the night,” she 
returned. As the door closed after him she shook her 
head. 

‘‘ He is certainly peculiar — very peculiar, and where 
he gets it from, Z don’t know. His dear father was a per- 
fect rock of sense, and no one can say there is any thing 
odd about me. So I am never to have a grandchild after 
all ! Well, well, I must write to Emma.” 

A short time afterward a sturdy eight-year-old boy was 
duly installed at the Hall — a vigorous little personality 
with shoulders that bade fair to rival in time those of any 
Alford who had ever reigned there, and already having 
a pronounced taste for manly sports and pursuits. 

“ He will be every thing I ought to have been,” said 
Henry, promising himself a certain melancholy pleasure in 
educating the boy according to the traditions of his race — 
traditions which had never been congenial to himself. 

Some months after the lad’s arrival he took him with 
him to the Warren Farm ; Henry being on foot, and the 
boy clattering backward and forward on his pony. 

Ruth was at first a little startled when they entered, but 
a glance at his face reassured her. 

“ This is my boy — my son,” he said, “ I have taken pos- 
session of him, as you have perhaps heard, Ruth. His 
parents have given him up to me.” 

‘‘ He is a bonny little fellow,” said Ruth, then, marking 
how confidently the small sunburned hand sought Henry’s, 
she added : 

“ He seems very fond of you ; I hope he will be a joy 
and comfort to you.” 

“ I think he will,” he returned gravely. “ I hope to be 
very proud of him by and by. Meanwhile he is making 


266 


A DAUGHTER OF THE SOIL 


the acquaintance of all my friends. You will let me 
count you as one of them always, will you not ? ” 

Ruth looked into bis truthful eyes for a moment and 
then stretched out her hand. 

“Indeed I will, sir.” 

“And if at any time I can help you, you know you 
may depend on me. Good-by. I am glad to be able to 
tell you this.” 

Ruth stood in the door-way watching him as he assisted 
the boy to mount, and Henry looked back at her before he 
walked away. Her face, though smiling now, bore traces of 
much sadness, yet its predominant expression was one of 
peace — that peace which comes of suffering patiently 
borne, and of self-conquest — “the peace of God, which 
passeth all understanding.” 


CHAPTER XXXII 


GLIMPSES 

“ My dear H41^ne, do you never sit still ?” 

“ Sometimes, when I am talking to an agreeable com- 
panion.” 

“ I am sure it is bad for you to fidget about the room 
like that.” 

“ Ah, yes ; nous sommes aux petits soins, are we not ? 
Since you are so anxious about me, I wonder you left 
me by myself yesterday.” 

“Surely not even the most devoted husband can be 
expected to stay indoors all day long ? ” 

“ Bah ! as it happened, I did not want you, you bored 
me, and the little Grasi was most entertaining.” 

“ He turned up, did he ? ” 

“ Yes, almost immediately after you left. He sat here 
for hours. Dieu / how comical he is ! I laughed, laughed, 
laughed ! He told me all about his loves. C'^'etait d se 
pdmer.^'* 

“ Indeed ? it must have been most interesting.” 

“ What a tone you take ! I believe you are jealous.” 

Anthony laughed. “ I think I have told you several 
times that I am not likely to commit that folly.” 

“ H’m, h’m, do not be too sure. Grasi is a most fasci- 
nating man. You are dining out this evening, are you 
not?” 

“ Yes, unless you would like me to remain with you.” 

“ Certainly not, mon cher ; go by all means. I shall 
write a line to my little vicomte, and tell him to come and 
bring his violin. We shall make music, ah, but music ! 

967 


268 


A DAUGHTER OF THE SOIL 


And I will tell him all my little affaires de cceur — it will be 
very amusing ! ” 

She danced across the room to the corner where Anthony 
sat ; and, stooping suddenly, thrust forward her face with 
a grotesque imitation of his rather disdainful smile. 

“ Imbecile ! je vous deteste ! ” she cried, snapping her 
fingers in his face. The tone and gesture were those of 
a fish-wife. Anthony drew back his head with an involun- 
tary expression of surprised disgust. 

His wife, after a moment’s silence, walked over to the 
table. 

‘‘ What is this old despatch-box doing here ? ” 

“ I have mislaid a paper, and intend to search for it 
presently.” 

“ Take it away, it spoils my pretty velvet cloth. There, 
take it, I say ! ” 

She flung the box toward him with such a wild aim that 
Anthony failed to catch it, and it fell heavily on the floor, 
the lock breaking and the contents being scattered far and 
wide. 

“ Ha ! now we shall see the secrets,” said Mrs. Clifton, 
pouncing upon as many of the papers as she could seize. 
“ Evil deeds come to light, you see ! What have we 
here ? ” 

“ Give me those papers, Helene,” said Anthony sternly. 

“ Ah, ah ! then you have secrets ! No, this is a chance 
for me and I take it.” 

“ Without having any particular secrets, I do not choose 
you to take possession of my private papers. Give them to 
me, I desire you.” 

He rose and approached her with so much determination 
in voice and manner that a less self-willed woman would 
have been quelled by it. But he had lost his former power 
over her, and she laughed in his face. 

“ You cannot have them unless you take them by 
force, and even you would hardly dare to struggle with 


GLIMPSES 


269 


a woman. Voyons, qu^est ce quHl y af Bills, bills, bills— 
you may have them all if you like,” tossing them toward 
him, “ letters, c^est plus interessant, pa — we shall read them 
presently ; d nous deux^moxQ letters. What is this, a por- 
trait ? Ah, ha ! monsieur has no secrets ? Who is this 
woman, then ? Stop ! ” with a sudden change of tone, 
“ I know ; it is the woman who came to you at Spa.” 

She held the photograph toward him, her hand trem- 
bling. It was indeed Ruth’s sweet, serene face which 
looked out at Anthony from the card. How had it come 
there ? He gazed at it as though transfixed, but presently 
remembered : she had been photographed in Paris a few 
weeks after their union, and one of the proofs had been 
mislaid. He had probably taken it up with some loose 
papers, and slipped it with them into his despatch-box. 

His anger suddenly left him, but his deep emotion was 
not lost upon his wife. 

‘‘ I give you my word,” he said, “ I did not know that it 
was there.” 

Menteur ! '*'* cried HeRne violently; and she tore the 
photograph across and across. 

A sort of spasm of anger crossed Anthony’s face, suc- 
ceeded by a profound melancholy. Turning round abruptly 
he went over to the window, gazing out into the street be- 
low, thronged by the usual gay Parisian crowd, but seeing 
nothing but Ruth’s face. 

The woman behind him stormed in vain ; he heeded her 
not until at last he caught the sound of sobs. Then he 
glanced round quickly ; his wife’s pretty face looked drawn 
and ill, and was glazed with tears ; her frenzy had exhausted 
her, but she still raged feebly. 

He crossed the room and took her little angry trembling 
hands. 

“ My dear child,” he said gently, “ why are you so 
unreasonable ? You make life very hard for us both.” 

She jerked her hand away with a harsh laugh. 


270 


A DAUGHTER OF THE SOIL 


1 am unreasonable, am I? What are you, then, 
that you expect me to take such a discovery calmly at 
such a moment ? There is not another man in the world, 
I believe, who would treat his wife as you treat me. And 
now, too, now, when any body else ” 

“ Oh, Helene, hush ! Have I not tried to be kind to you ? ” 

“ Kind — oh, yes — falsely kind, like the traitor that you 
are ! Do you not think I see you have no love for me ? 
You are cold — hard — like a stone to me because your heart 
is with that other woman. You correspond with hey, I 
suppose — she sends you her portrait — you probably meet 
frequently ” 

She could scarcely articulate in her rage. Anthony 
looked at her with a kind of amazed repulsion — was this 
the pretty, soulless toy he thought he had married ? The 
thin veneer of refinement was gone — this was a little 
savage animal — with yet enough of the woman about her 
to make her impotent passion piteous. 

He strove to speak patiently : “ Do try and calm your- 
self ; you will really injure yourself. Believe me or not 
as you choose — I assure you most positively that I was as 
much surprised as you to find that portrait there. I do 
not write to that lady, nor she to me. I have never seen 
her since she came to Spa — we shall probably,” his voice 
faltered, “ never meet again.” 

He paused a moment, and then, drawing Helene down 
beside him on the sofa, said almost pleadingly, “ It is per- 
haps natural for you to distrust me — but there is really no 
need. I may not be a very admirable husband — but I am 
at least a faithful one.” 

She burst into a shrill ironical laugh. 

“Ah, oui, un modMe ! Voila ce qui est certain ! ” 

’ “Do my most solemn assurances go for nothing, then ? ” 

“ My friend, I prefer to believe my eyes. I know you, 
you see.” 

Anthony rose, the dark color rushing to his face ; and 


GLIMPSES 


271 


Stood looking down at her for a moment or two in silence. 
She too was miserable, poor little unreasonable creature, 
and she was making herself ill besides. 

“ Helene,” he said hesitatingly, “ there is, I suppose, 
no use in prolonging this discussion, but it seems to me 
such a pity to make life more unendurable than it need be. 
Perhaps our marriage was a mistake — but it cannot be 
undone. Can we not — for the sake of the little one who 
is coming — try to bear with each other a little ? ” 

“ iVbw,” she returned abruptly, and raising her hands 
she pushed him away from her, ‘‘ non, je ne vous souffre 
pas. I hate, hate, hate you ! There ! Go away. Yous 
m^ennuyez.'*'* 

“ Monsieur can go in to madame, now, if he is careful 
not to excite her. The little one ? Oh, the little one is well, 
monsieur. Jolt comme tin coeur. Go in then, monsieur. 
Madame will be enchantee to see you.” 

Thus the garde; black-eyed, smiling, and important. 
She raised the heavy portiere, and Anthony approached 
his wife’s bedside a little timidly. 

There lay Helene, looking very pretty in her soft cam- 
brics and laces. On the rose-colored satin counterpane 
were piled a variety of dressmaker’s patterns, and she was 
giving directions in an animated voice to her maid, who 
was standing on the other side of the bed. 

“The lace en cascade, you will tell her, Berthe, and the 
ribbon in big knots. Then for the other — well, what is the 
matter ? ” 

“ It is monsieur who is coming in to see madame.” 

“ Oh ! wait there a minute, then ” — with an impatient 
twist of the shoulder. 

“They would not let me come. yesterday,” said Anthony, 
stooping to kiss her brow. 

She did not reply ; one little hand was busy with the 
shreds of silk and velvet. 


272 


A DAUGHTER OF THE SOIL 


“ Where is ” — said Anthony, looking round, after an 
embarrassed pause — “ where is the child ? ” 

Mon Dieu, where is it, Berthe ? ” 

The nurse has taken it away, madame, into her room.” 

“ If I had known,” observed the new-made father a little 
reproachfully, “ I should have gone to see it before — but 
I thought it was with you, and I feared to disturb you.” 

“ It was not likely I should keep the little crying thing 
here — it makes a noise like a cat.” 

“But it is strong and healthy, is it not ? ” 

“ Oh, yes, I believe so. Ask the garde. She knows.” 

“ And you, Helene, how do you feel ? ” 

“ Ennuy'ee ! ” cried madame, with a grimace, “ bored so 
that I could cry ! Eieu, que c^est assommant de mettre un 
enfant au monde! On ri^en finit pas. B-r-r-r-r ! how I 
hate it all ! I am sick of their broths and gruels — I am tired 
to death of lying here already, and they tell me I must not 
think of getting up for days and days ! I have nothing to 
amuse me — I can see no one. Ah, que diable suis-je allee 
faire dans cette gaUref ” 

“ Poor little Helene ! ” said Anthony, laughing ruefully, 
though he felt secretly sore at heart. “ Come, let us send 
for the baby, and see if it will not console you. They tell 
me it is a pretty little thing, and you know you wished for 
a girl.” 

“ It isn’t pretty,” returned madame fretfully; “ it is 
frightful — at least I thought so when I saw it j^esterday. 
De grace do not bring it in here — it cries all the time and 
makes my head ache. Now, Berthe ; shall we have the 
cream-color or the pink for the dressing-gown ? ” 

Anthony, considering himself dismissed, made his way 
out again and knocked at the door of the room where he 
was told the nurse was installed. A white-capped peasant 
woman opened it, inviting him with many smiling gesticu- 
lations, and showing him the infant asleep in its cradle. 

Likenesses are sometimes curiously noticeable in new- 


GLIMPSES 


273 


born babes, and Anthony recognized with an odd mixture 
of feelings that the little placid face before him was start- 
lingly like the Alfords. It was the image of his own, in 
fact — even he could see that — and the thought flashed 
across him suddenly : “ If it had been Ruth’s child, how 
proud she would have been ! ” 

“ La belle petite / ” cried the nurse. “ Does monsieur 
observe the little dimpled hand ? And see then the hair — 
curly already and so thick. It is dark, yes, but it will be 
lighter by and by — chestnut, like the hair of monsieur. 
She resembles her papa, the dear little one ! ” 

Anthony threw up his hands in involuntary protest. 
Heaven forbid that the poor child should resemble him 
too closely — if she had inherited his temperament as well 
as his face, what would become of her ? What would 
become of her in any case ? He himself was scarcely fit 
to guide and instruct her — and as for her mother — here 
Anthony was conscious of a sudden rush of indignation — 
what was to be expected from a heartless coquette who 
would hardly take the trouble to look upon the face of her 
first-born ? Hapless little babe — it would have been better 
for it never to have come into the world — it would be 
better now, perhaps — but the tiny fingers closed round his 
long brown one tentatively outstretched, and his whole 
face changed — oh, no ; not better for it to die — it must not 
die. It was his child after all, something of his own, 
something to love — and he was very lonely. 

‘‘ You will take care of it, nurse, will you not ? ” 


18 


CHAPTER XXXIII 


GAFFER GOES FORRARD ” 

** Dun yo’ year bell tollin’ ? ” said Barbara. “ Sh, sb, , 
sh ! — sixty-five, sixty-six, sixty-seven, sixty-eight. It will 
be Mester Wharton, for sure — seventy-one — ah, I thought 
it were him. It’s stopped, yo’ see. He’s bin failin’ ever 
sin’ Michaelmas. Eh, well ! he were one o’ th’ better mak’, 
an’ he’s gone to a better place. Missus Wharton ’ill be 
awful taken to, poor soul — hoo will, I doubt, for all hoo’s 
well left.” 

Seventy-one,” meditated Bob. ‘‘ Eh, I’d scarce ha’ 
thought he were that mich. He were alius sich an ’earty 
owd lad. Seventy-one — two year owder nor me. Eh, I 
reckon I’m th’ owdest farmer on Alford proputty now.” 

“ Oh, no, father ! ” cried Ruth eagerly. You’re not 
old at all. Sixty-nine is nothing.” 

’Ark at th’ lass ! ” chuckled the gaffer. “ Hoo wants 
to mak’ out as her feyther’s quite a frisky yoong chap ! Eh, 
Ruthie, sixty-nine’s pretty well on, thou knows.” 

‘‘ I’m sure Tommy Lupton is years older than you, and 
so is Martin Ford.” 

“ Ah, they are, lass, both on ’em ; but they aren’t farmers, 
thou sees. Gradely farmers never lives to ony long age — 
never— it’s a cur’ous thing. Owd Dr. Bart used alius say, 
’t’were th’ heytin’ an’ drinkin’. ‘ Yo’ farmers,’ he’d say, ‘ is 
alius agate at yo’r beef an’ bacon — an’ when yo’re not 
heytin’ yo’re drinkin’, ’ says he. Ho ! ho ! He were happen 
reet. Then, thou sees, farmers has a dale o’ standin’ 
about — an’ sittin’ i’ traps an’ thot — an’ they’re mostly 
’eavy men an’ cotches cowd easy. That’s wheer it is, see 

274 


GAFFER “ GOES FORRAED ” 275 

thou. It’s the ’titus as gener’lly carries us off at th’ last — 
it ’ll be th’ ’titus as ’ill finish me, I reckon. Nay, us 
farmers doesn’t live so very long, none of us. An’ now 
poor owd Jack Wharton’s gone. It ’ll happen be my turn 
next.” 

‘‘Very like it will,” said Luke cheerfully. “ Very like.” 

“How can you say such foolish things?” cried Ruth 
impatiently, but casting at the same time an anxious glance 
at her father. “ Really, Luke, if I could not find something 
more pleasant to say, I shouldn’t talk at all.” 

“Well, nobry can say as our Luke’s a great talker,” 
observed the farmer impartially. “ Nay, he’s not one as 
lets his tongue wag so very mich. But he’s smartened up 
wonderful, ha’n’t he, Barbara? He’s a reg’lar dandy, is 
Luke. I can smell the yure-oil off him from ’ere.” 

Luke passed his hand gently over his reeking locks, and 
smiled with a satisfied air. 

“ I fancy Luke’s agate o’ courtin’ ” went on Bob, wink- 
ing with both eyes together at the womankind. “ How’s 
Jinny, I wonder ! Jinny’s getten ’er a new ’at. Hoo’s 
very near as fine as our Luke.” 

Barbara set her arms akimbo and contemplated the 
rustic gallant with an inscrutable expression. 

“ Jinny indeed ! ” quoth she. 

Luke rose, and stood grinning before Ruth. 

“ Coom outside for a bit,” he said, jerking his head 
toward the door. 

“ No, thank you ; I am going to stay with my father.” 

“ Then I’ll goo my ways to Tyrers’ an’ fetch Jinny fur 
a walk,” said Luke, without the least change of expression. 

“Ah, do!” cried gaffer. “Hoo’ll be happen expectin’ 
thee,” winking again. “My lass ’ere’s fur bidin’ wi’ 
feyther. Well, an’ hoo shall bide wi’ feyther, if hoo’s a 
mind. Wheer’s th’ paper, Barbara? Sit thee down; 
Ruth’s balm to read us th’ news.” 

Ruth unfolded the paper and read out a selection of its 


276 


A DAUGHTER OF THE SOIL 


contents to the old folks ; listening vaguely to their 
comments, and responding rather at random, for her mind 
had been much disturbed by her father’s casual reference 
to himself as one who had not, in all probability, very long 
to live. Her eyes strayed constantly toward him ; it 
struck her that there were many more creases and wrinkles 
in his ruddy, good-humored face than when she had 
returned from her ill-fated expedition to Spa, more than 
a year ago now, and his hair and whiskers were whiter. 
His limbs, though as massive as ever, were perhaps less 
muscular, and his broad shoulders stooped a little. How 
was it she had not hitherto realized that her father was 
aging fast, and that according to the order of nature she 
could only hope to keep him a few years ’ longer ? A few 
years at best — and he was all she had ! How should she 
live without him? 

That night, when all the household slumbered, Ruth 
crept down to the farmer’s room, and gazed at him as he 
slept, with the solicitude of a mother over her babe. Cer- 
tainly gaffer’s face looked comfortably red as it snuggled 
into the pilloV, and his snores were loud enough ! Ruth 
stole back to bed somewhat comforted. 

Her anxiety, however, once roused, could not again be 
allayed. She now endeavored to deter her father from 
going out in the wet, was alarmed when he returned home 
late, terrified at the smallest symptom of cold. But Bob 
was, it must be owned, hard to manage. He had not 
indeed the smallest objection to being smothered in wraps 
and comforters, and had, moreover, a theory of his own 
that an occasional glass of whiskey and water to warm his 
“ in’ards,” and the constant smoking of a certain stumpy 
black pipe, were the best preventives of cold in the world. 
But as for staying indoors, even in a blizzard, or changing 
wet boots, or walking about instead of standing at 
draughty corners, he scouted all such suggestions with 
scorn. The lass ’ud mak’ him thot nesh if he were to give 


GAFFER “ GOES FOERARD 


277 


in to her, he complained to Barbara, as he’d welly be 
ashamed to look the neighbors i’ th’ face. He got over 
the winter so well, however, that Ruth began to think her 
fears groundless ; but when March came, and with it a 
spell of terribly hard weather, gaffer caught a severe cold, 
and presently it became evident that his presentiment was 
about to be realized, and that “ th’ ’titus,” would indeed 
finish him off. 

From the very first he had no hope of his own recovery, 
though, when his daughter assured him that the doctor did 
not think unfavorably of his case, he did not contradict her. 

“ He thinks you are a little better to-day,” she would 
say wistfully, for now that her forebodings were actually 
justified she strove to disbelieve in them. 

“ Aye, lass,” gaffer would answer, eying her hard, 

“ Pie says,” pursued Ruth, that you have such a good 
constitution, you know.” 

“ Ah,” said Bob, ‘‘ I have that,” but he was evidently 
unconvinced. 

One day he suddenly called over Barbara : “ Theer’s 
one thing as is troublin’ me, owd lass. I dunnot like to ax 
our Ruth — poor lass, hoo connot thooal th’ notion o’ my goin’, 
but it bothers me, I -tell ’ee. Wheer mun I be buried, 
thinks thou? Grave’s full up — eh, I’ve mony a time rued 
lettin’ our Mary bury her children theer. Th’ last little 
lad is reet on top, they say. Theer’d never be room for 
me ! I’m sich a terrible size — eh,” said gaffer, with a cer- 
tain pride ? “I doubt my coflSn ’ill be about th’ biggest 
ever made in Alford village ! ” 

“ I reckon it will,” said Barbara, with an appreciative 
glance, followed by a sniff. 

“Well,” went on her master, after an interval of cough- 
ing ; “ what mun I do, thinks thou ? ” 

“ Why,” said Barbara, “ yo’ mun jist buy yo’sel’ a new 
un — yo’re rich enough. Buy a nice bit o’ ground as ’ull do 
for yo’rsel’ an’ yo’r Ruth, when her time cooms.” 


278 


A DAUGHTER OF THE SOIL 


“ Eh, Barbara, whatever art thou thinkin’ on ? Our 
Ruth ’ull not be buried wi’ me. Her ’ll goo yonder wi’ our 
missus at Brooklands. Th’ priest ’ll ha’ th’ berrin’ o’ Ruth. 
Thot’s whot’s botherin’ me, I tell ’ee. I wouldn’t grudge 
th’ new’ grave if th’ lass ’ud ha’ th’ benefit on’t, but hoo 
wunnot.” 

“Well, then, cannot yo’ ax Mr. Pennington if he’d be 
willin’ to bury yo’ at Brooklands ? Happen th’ priest ’ud 
ha’ no objection on account o’ yo’r missus bein’ theer. 
An’ theer’s plenty o’ room fur yo’ an’ Ruth too.” 

“ Nay, nay, Barbara,” wheezed gaffer. “ ’Twouldn’t 
seem nat’ral, lass. Nay, I mun be buried i’ th’ owd church- 
yard yonder, where I’n stood every Sunday ever sin’ I 
were a lad, waitin’ for bell to stop ringin’ an’ watchin’ th’ 
folks goin’ in. Eh, I reckon I’ll want to get up an’ jine 
’em when I year ’em tramplin’ past ! ” He paused to 
cough again, gazing at the old woman the while with a 
puzzled expression. 

“ Whatever mun I do, eh ? I keep moiderin’ about it, 
lyin’ ’ere. It seems sich waste, thou knows, fur me to go 
an’ buy a new grave when theer’s nobbut mysel’ to put in’t.” 

“ I tell yo’ what yo’ should do, gaffer,” cried Barbara, 
struck with a bright thought. “Missus Tyrer an’ yo’ 
should jine, yo’ know, an’ buy a grave between yo’. ’Tis 
but reet when all’s said an’ done. Hoo’s putten her chil- 
der i’ yo’r fam’ly grave — hoo should be at some o’ th’ 
expense o’ th’ new one. An’ hoo’ll be wantin’ one for her- 
sel’, yo’ known, an’ all they childer. Tyrer’s is full. If 
hoo was to lose another o’ yon rook o’ little lads an’ lasses, 
hoo’d ha’ nowheres to bury it. ’T’ud coom a dale chepper 
to her to goo ’alves wi’ yo’, nor to get a new un for hersel’.” 

“ Eh, Barbara, well said, owd lady ! ” exclaimed gaffer, 
his face clearing. “ Thou’re a wonderful owd lass — I’ve 
alius said thee wert. Eh, I’d never ha’ thought o’ thot ! 
Th’ very thing ! — th’ next time our Mary cooms. I’ll ax her. 
Eh, I’m fain thou’s thought on it — I’m a deal easier i’ ray 


279 


GAFFER “ GOES FOERARD ” 

mind now.” Gaffer indeed set about his deein’ ” in the 
most untroubled fashion with which ever a man undertook 
that rather important piece of business. It was certainly 
an affair which he would personally have preferred to post- 
pone for some years longer, but since that was not to 
be, he faced the inevitable with his usual straightforward 
simplicity. The thought of the next world did not alarm 
him in the least ; though that he pondered about it was 
evident from the frequent surmises concerning it to which 
he gave utterance. 

“ Does thou think, Ruthie, as we’s ha’ to weer wings up 
yonder ? ” he asked one day. 

“ Oh, no, dear father ! ” answered Ruth, smiling in spite 
of her heavy heart, at the anxiety in his face. 

“ I alius thought we ’ad to ’ave ’em,” he returned feebly. 
“ Eh, but I’m glad, lass — wings wouldn’t coom nat’ral to 
me.” 

He dozed for a little, but waking after a time, said sud- 
denly : “ Thou met read me a bit, my wench ; th’ Bible’s 
yonder i’ th’ cupboard. Read about when th’ Lord was 
out walking o’ th’ Sabbath, an’ the disciples geet agate o’ 
pullin’ t’ears o’ corn, an’ th’ preachin’ folk sauced ’em for’t. 
Eh, I’m rale fond o’ that chapter.” 

Ruth found the place, and read ; her father chuckling to 
himself when she paused. 

“ Weren’t thot an answer, lass ? ‘ Which man shall 

there be among yo’ as shall have one sheep, and if it fall 
into a pit on th’ Sabbath day will he not lay hold on it and 
lift it out ? How mich is a mon better than a sheep ? ’ says 
he. Ho ! Ho ! I reckon they couldn’t say mich to thot ! 
Eh, Ruth, I could fancy as th’ Lord were one as a body like 
mysel’ could soon mak’ free wi’. He mun ha’ knowed 
farmer folk meeterly well. Read me about th’ seed, now. 
Eh, thot’s wonderful clever, how the thorns choked it, thou 
knows — jist same as they would — an’ th’ sun brunt it up o’ 
the rock, an’ theer was a gradely crop o’ th’ ground.” 


280 


A DAUGHTER OP THE SOIL 


Ruth read again, falteringly, for her tears fell upon the 
page, but gaffer listened, smiling. 

It’s wonderful nat’ral,” he said ; ‘‘ wonderful ! An’ yon 
bit wheel’ he says ‘ When it is evening,’ says he, ‘ ye say 
it will be fair weather, for the sk}^ is red. And in the 
morning, it will be foul weather to-day, for the sky is red 
and lowering.’ Jest th’ same as we say here — th’ very 
same ! Eh, he mun ha’ took wonderful notice ! He 
knowed country folk an’ country ways. I connot feel,” 
said Bob faintly, for he was growing tired, ‘‘ I connot 
no-ways feel as if he were a stranger.” 

Ruth leaned her brow against his pillow, scarcely able 
to conceal her grief. Dear simple old father ! She was 
losing him ! His childlike soul would need no passport 
“yonder”; he would soon be at home; it was she who 
must remain a stranger and a pilgrim in a lonely land. 

Gaffer shifted his head a little so that he could catch a 
glimpse of her averted face ; his own was overshadowed 
for a moment and it seemed as though he would speak. 
But he sighed instead, and closed his eyes, presently fall- 
ing into a doze. That the thought of his child’s forlorn 
estate was frequently present to him was betrayed by many 
wistful glances and feeble caresses ; but he never spoke 
of it, and as the end drew near his serenity increased. 

He had been wandering a little during the day, calling 
for his “ missus,” whistling to an imaginary dog, clacking 
his tongue and addressing encouraging admonitions to a 
certain nag, “Boxer,” buried years before. When the 
evening came, however, he grew more silent, and lay quite 
still, gazing before him, but without seeing those gathered 
round his bed. Ruth knelt beside him, holding his hand 
in hers ; while Mrs. Tyrer and Barbara, leaning, each the 
picture of woe, over the end of his bed, occasionally 
exchanged tearful whispers as to the progress of his 
“ deein’.” 

“ He’s goin’ off comfortable,” the one would sob, while 


GAFFER “ GOES FORRARD 


281 


the other, wiping her eyes, would opine that it wouldn’t be 
so long now. 

Presently gaffer gave a little sigh, and made an effort to 
speak. All bent toward him, holding their breath. 

“ Coom,” said gaffer, “ let’s be — goin’ forrard.” 

His fingers closed round Ruth’s and then relaxed their 
clasp ; he had gone forward — into eternity. 


CHAPTER XXXIV 


“ SIGH NO MORE, LADIES ” 

The Warren Farm without Gaffer Bob ! Is it possible 
to describe the desolation of the place ? As for Ruth, who 
shall say what her father’s loss was to her? When she 
came back after the funeral to the empty house, and saw 
his chair standing against the wall, she, who had shed no 
tears since he left her, cried and groaned aloud : 

“ Oh, father, father ! Why couldn’t I go with you ; 
why couldn’t you take me?” 

“ Don’t ’ee fret, Ruth,” said Barbara gruffly. “Thou’s 
bin a good wench to him — an’ thot ought to be coomfort 
to thee ! ’Tisn’t as if thou’d ever bin a trouble to him, 
same as other folks.” 

“ Ah, but I was a grief to him, too,” sobbed Ruth. 

“Nay, thou weren’t,” cried the old woman stoutly. 
“ Theer’s others ” — with a sniff — “ as crossed him war nor 
thee — an’ they rue it, I tell ’ee.” 

Her wrinkled face was contorted with the effort to keep 
back the tears, and her eyes were crimson with those she 
had already shed ; after this last rather mysterious state- 
ment she heaved a deep sigh and backed slowly toward the 
door. 

“ I’m bahn to tak’ off my blacks,” she said. “ Ruth, if I 
were thee, I’d do th’ same. It ’ull mess thy crape war nor 
a month’s weer, cowerin’ o’ th’ floor that gate.” 

Ruth scarcely heard her. She was crouching beside her 
father’s chair, with her head upon the cushioned seat. 

Barbara went slowly upstairs ; her heavy footfall, as she 
moved about in the room above, the only sound to be 

282 


SIGH NO MOEE, LADIES 


283 


(( 


5> 


heard in the silent house ; presently she came down again 
and went out into the yard. Maggie and the men would 
be coming in presently. Mrs. Tyrer had, at Ruth’s request, 
entertained the mourners at her house, and the girl herself 
had chosen to return home immediately after the ceremony, 
accompanied, somewhat to her surprise, by Barbara. 

“ I’m sure you would rather go to Brooklands,” she had 
said, knowing that the old woman’s principles must natu- 
rally urge her to be present at the melancholy festivity. 

“ Nawe,” Barbara had replied, “ I’ll coom my ways wi’ 
thee. Thou’rt all ’at’s left now — I’ll see to thee.” 

Hearing approaching footsteps by and by, Ruth thought 
Luke and the servants were returning, and rose quickly, 
hastening to the door, that she might make her escape up- 
stairs before they entered. But it was Barbara whom she 
met in the passage ; Barbara, sobbing under her breath, 
and proceeding toward the stairs with a curious crablike 
motion, carrying something under her apron. 

She started as she caught sight of Ruth, shuffled a little 
away from her, and then, suddenly changing her mind, drew 
aside her apron and exposed to Ruth’s view — a battered 
man’s hat. 

“ It’s th’ gaffer’s,” said Barbara, with the tears rolling 
down her cheeks. ‘‘ It’s yon ’at as he set sich store by — 
an’ I went an’ bruk it — I did. Eh, however ’ad I th’ ’eart? 
How could I ha’ crossed him — the best master ever a body 
’ad ! It were me as smashed it ! Eh, lass, I tell ’ee it cuts 
me. I made an end on’t, an’ he were terrible takken to — 
an’ now he’ll never weer no hats again.” 

“ Don’t cry so, Barbara ; you didn’t mean it.” 

“ I did, Ruth ; I raly did. Thou’d never think I wur 
thot wicked, but I ’ad sich pride in me I couldn’t thooal to 
see him weer it — an’ I set it on a cheer an’ sot me down 
on’t. Eh, I mun fret, lass — I connot give ower. Thou can 
think thysel’ lucky, for thou never were bad to thy feyther, 
same as me. Eh, gaffer, I rue it now ! Eh, gaffer, gaffer, 


284 


A DAUGHTER OF THE SOIL 


if yo’ could coom back yo’ might weer owt yo’ fancied — 
I’d never cross ye.” 

She went upstairs, inarticulately moaning and lamenting^ 
and locked up the precious relic among the treasures in her 
cupboard. 

Farmer Sefton’s will was the cause of quite a stir of 
respectable excitement in .the neighborhood. Every one 
felt that poor Bob had acted very handsomely in proving 
himself to be a man of so much substance. Barbara’s 
legacy alone was held to be “ a nice little fortun’ Luke, 
though he seemed neither surprised nor elated, was undeni- 
ably “ well left ” ; while as for Ruth, what between the 
farm and “ th’ brass i’ th’ bank,” she was considered to be 
mistress of untold wealth. 

Luke came to her a few days after the reading of the 
will. 

“ Mun I keep on here same as us’al ? ” 

“I hope you will, Luke. You know all about the place 
and will help me to manage it.” 

“ I’d sooner manage it altogether,” said Luke stolidly. 

Ruth looked up with a little weary gesture. 

“ Do what you like for the present. I have not been 
able to look into things yet. By and by we can talk over 
our arrangements.” 

Luke shuffled with his feet, and observed presently : 

‘‘ Jinny Snippet says it ought to be th’ one way or th’ 
t’other.” 

“ What do you mean ? ” 

“ Why, thot’s what hoo says,” repeated Luke, nodding. 
“ ‘ One thing or t’other,’ says hoo.” 

“ Do you mean she thinks you should either manage the 
place entirely, or not at all ? ” 

“ Ah,” said Luke, rubbing his chin and staring very 
hard at Ruth. “ Summat o’ the kind.” 

“ I really can’t say yet,” she replied, looking rather 
puzzled. “I have not had time to think — but I am sure 


285 


‘‘ SIGH NO MORE, LADIES 

my father would not like me to give up the control of 
every thing. I will think over it, and let you know at the 
end of the week what I consider best.” 

“ Very well,” agreed Mr. Aughton ; then he smiled 
broadly. “ I’ll tell Jinny hoo mun wait — that’s all. 
Wenches is all fur havin’ every thin’ settled straight off — 
but hoo mun ha’ patience.” 

“ Really, I think, considering everything, she might be 
content to wait a few days,” returned Ruth, with a little 
natural irritation. Jinny was presumably in a hurry to 
arrange financial matters previous to her wedding ; but 
nevertheless she might surely have some consideration for 
her cousin in her bereavement. 

“ I’ll tell her,” said Luke, slouching out of the room. 

One morning a day or two later, he suddenly astonished 
her by producing from the depth of his trousers pocket a 
small packet, which proved to contain a little needle-case 
of red leather. The price ticket, marked in plain, very 
plain figures, was attached to it ; and though Luke pres- 
ently removed this, by the simple expedient of rubbing it 
with a corner of his handkerchief, previously moistened in 
his mouth, it had already been made evident to all present 
that the article in question had cost one shilling and seven 
pence halfpenny. 

Luke pushed it across the table to Ruth. 

What dun yo’ think o’ that ? ” 

“ It’s very pretty. Is it for Jinny ? ” 

“ Nawe — it’s fur yo’. Yo’r feyther towd me onest as 
I’d never give yo’ nought. Well, now I’ve gi’en yo’ 
thot. He, he, isn’t it pretty — an’ useful too ? Theer 
now ! ” 

He rose, leered all round the table, and went out, closing 
the door after him. In an instant, however, he thrust his 
head in again : 

“ Dunnot tell Jinny ! ” he cried. 

“ Yon lad is noan coortin’ Jinny Snippet,” observed Bar- 


286 


A DAUGHTER OF THE SOIL 


bara, pushing back her chair noisily. ‘‘ He’s arter soombry 
else — an’ thou knows who, Ruth.” 

Ruth looked annoyed and perturbed ; something in 
Luke’s demeanor, besides his unusual generosity, seemed to 
endorse the old woman’s words. She resolved to delay her 
explanation no later than the morrow ; it would not be her 
fault if Luke did not thoroughly understand his position. 

After breakfast, therefore, on the following day she sum- 
moned him to the parlor, and informed him, somewhat 
peremptorily, that while she was most anxious to retain 
his services at the farm, and had all confidence in his 
wisdom and discretion, she did not intend his authority to 
be supreme, and wished him to consult her as to every 
important undertaking. 

“ I want you, in fact,” she added, “ to be a kind of bailiff 
or overseer, carrying on the work here in the old way. Of 
course you will now have many more responsibilities, and I 
will make it worth your while.” 

Luke shook his head. 

“ It ’ll not do,” he said. “ Rawe, it wunnot.” 

“ Do not be foolish ; why should it not do ? You under- 
stand the work and will be earning good wages.” 

“ I’ve no mind to be yo’r mon,” said Luke. He paused 
and cleared his throat. “ If I’m to bide. I’ll be mester 
’ere.” 

Ruth looked at him without speaking ; her color rising 
ominously. 

“See here, Ruth,” he went on calmly. “Yo’ connot 
work this here farm wi’out me. I know it — an’ I con keep 
it gooin’ same’s yo’r feyther — but I’ll no bide wi’out yo’ 
marry me. I’ll tell you’ thot — I wunnot.” 

“ Then you must go,” said Ruth curtly. 

“Hay, now, tak’ time, tak’ time — dunnot be i’ sich a 
hurry — yo’ll happen rue it at arter. See yo’, Ruth, if I wur 
to live ’ere wi’out bein’ wed to yo’, folks ’ud get agate o’ 
talkin’ — they would fur sure, an’ thot’s none so pleasant 


SIGH NO MOBE, LADIES 


287 


<( 




fur an ’ard-wortcbin’ chap same’s me. I’m willin’ to wed 
yo’, an’ I’m not one to go castin’ up by-gones to yo’ ! 
Nawe — I’d just as soon ha’ yo’ as another lass.” 

‘‘ Luke, if you don’t want me to tell you to go out of the 
house this very morning and never come back, you’ll be 
silent. Never speak to me like that again. Do you hear ? 
Never another word on the subject ! ” 

Her cheeks were crimson, her eyes glowing with anger. 
Luke gaped at her and scratched his head. 

“Look here, Ruth,” he observed at last, his exasperation 
finding vent in a kind of roar, “ dom me if I can tell what 
yo’re drivin’ at ! Is it aye or nay, tell me. Now mind 
what yo’re doin’. I tell yo’ plain, I wunnot gi’ yo’ another 
chance.” 

“ It’s no,” said Ruth, and in spite of her vexation her 
face dimpled with smiles. 

“ Then Jinny ’ll do,” cried Luke, ramming his hat on his 
head. “ Never say I didn’t axyo’, Ruth. Well ; all’s well 
as ends well — we’s try Jinny I ” 


CHAPTER XXXV 


“mine ear is full of the murmur of rocking 

CRADLES ” 

Luke’s defection was perhaps the best thing that could 
have happened to Ruth, though for the sake of old asso- 
ciations, and out of regard for what she knew her father 
had wished, she would have been glad if he had continued 
to work the farm for her. But even if he himself had 
been willing to accept a subordinate position on the place 
where he had hoped to be master, Jenny’s pride would 
have forbidden it. 

“ Me an’ Luke’s goin’ to ’ave a farm o’ we’re own,” she 
remarked with a high and mighty air, when the subject 
was broached. “ Our folks are goin’ security for th’ rent, 
an’ he’s enough money of his own to stock it. We need 
be behowden to nobry.” 

“Stuck-up little bowd-faced huzzy !” commented Bar- 
bara. “ If it hadn’t ha’ been for our gaffer, yon chap o’ 
hers ’ud scarce ha’ brass enough to buy himsel’ a pair o’ 
breeches. Hoo needn’t be so proud as thot comes to, wi’ 
a feyther as were sowd up, an’ an ’usband as is no better 
nor a charity lad ! ” 

Ruth’s new responsibilities were, however, invaluable in 
forcing her to rouse herself even in the midst of her first 
heaviness of grief. Poor old Bob Sefton would not have 
rested in his grave if the Warren Farm had been mis- 
managed, and his daughter was obliged to be astir early 
and late in order to assure herself that every thing was 
done in the manner he would have wished. 

“It is because he would have liked it that I work so 


^‘the murmur op rocking cradles” 289 

hard,” she said once to the old priest at Brooklands, ‘‘ and 
of course in any case it is my duty, but I often wonder 
what is the use of it all ? What is the good of being 
prosperous when one is all alone ? ” 

“ Do your duty, my dear,” was her friend’s response, 
“ do 3^our duty. God will show you the good of it in his 
own time ! ” 

Things did indeed seem to prosper more than ever at the 
Warren Farm since Ruth had assumed the management. 
She was naturally practical and energetic, with a good head 
for business ; and besides being accustomed to hear every 
detail of farm-life discussed by her father, had always 
taken an active part therein. The work was thoroughly 
congenial to her, moreover, and as the time passed, she 
began to take a certain pleasure in the sight of her teem- 
ing acres, and her sleek cattle ; and to find savor once 
again in the familiar routine. Her nature was too broad 
and strong, her mind too wholesome and well-regulated, to 
be dominated by perpetual sadness ; but at times her lone- 
liness oppressed her painfully, and in spite of all efforts to 
be cheerful life seemed very blank. Then she would try 
to find comfort in comforting others ; people for miles 
around called for “ Ruth o’ th’ Warren,” in times of trouble. 
Her purse was deep, it is true, and her hand open ; and in 
certain cases these facts alone would have ensured her a 
welcome, but she was, nevertheless, beloved chiefl}'^ for her- 
self ; for her ready sympathy, her patience, her tender 
tolerance. Her own sorrows seemed to give her a special 
power over those in affliction, and many a poor mourner 
welcomed her kind, grave face as though it were the face 
of an angel of light. Sometimes, too, she heard pitiful 
tales of sin and misery, and her helpful tact became the 
means of saving a hapless transgressor from despair. 

So the time passed, slowly indeed, but not altogether 
unhappily. The grass had been green on gaffer’s grave 
for more than a year, when one day Ruth received a letter 
19 


290 


A DAUGHTER OF THE SOIL 


from a poor girl whom slie had once befriended. A foolish, 
pretty, vain lassie, who had strayed into evil ways even in 
her happy home, and had of late been entirely lost sight 
of. She wrote from a London hospital : ‘‘I am dying,” 
she said, “the doctors say I can’t last many days. Oh, 
Ruth ! do come and see me. I’m frightened. I have been 
so bad. Do come and comfort me like you did before. 
Oh, why didn’t I keep my promise then ! I’d be ashamed 
to see father and mother now, but I’d just love to see 
you ! ” 

Ruth went at once, and was in time to do much for the 
poor little rustic sinner, who had been punished so bitterly 
for her folly. The girl died clinging to her hand and try- 
ing to repeat the prayers she said. Ruth cut off a lock of 
her fair hair for the mother — who was to be told nothing 
of her child, save that she was dead — then she turned and 
went away, her face very sad and solemn. Such a death 
was terrible — but God was very merciful ; Rose had not 
looked so frightened at the last. 

She took the night train northward, not wishing to* 
remain in London, and got into an empty first-class car- 
riage, permitting herself this unwonted extravagance, as 
she was travelling alone. It was a cold night and she was 
very tired ; rolling lierself up in a shawl, she prepared to 
go to sleep. Just as the train was about to start somebody 
got in ; there was a great deal of shuffling about and 
arranging of bags and wraps. Ruth in her corner did not 
feel sufflcient curiosity to raise her shawl in order to look 
out at the new-comer. 

Some one was talking volubly through the window ; 
then the train started with a jerk, and the person sat down 
beside her. There was a sudden drowsy cry, and Ruth, 
partially raising herself, turned round a little way, and 
saw that her travelling companion was a foreign looking 
woman with a white cap, who carried what seemed to be a 
large bundle of wraps, from which proceeded, however. 


THE MUEMUR OF ROCKIXG CRADLES 


291 


(( 




certain inarticulate remonstrances, while the chubby hand 
of a small child energetically beat the air. 

“ Dors, Bebe, dors,” said the woman. ‘‘ Don, don, don, 
don ! ” She rocked her nursling up and down, crooning 
meanwhile a monotonous ditty, which had evidently the 
desired effect ; the little husky voice was silenced, and 
presently Ruth too fell asleep, so soundly that she did not 
feel the jerk and jar of the train stopping at one of the 
principal stations, and even the clapping of doors and 
shouting of porters failed to rouse her. But presently she 
was roused, and that very effectually, by the sound of a 
voice at the carriage window. It spoke in French, and in 
low tones, but Ruth was awake at the very first word. 

‘‘ Is she comfortable, nurse ? ” 

“ Monsieur can see for himself, she sleeps like an angel.” 

“ You are sure she is not cold ; can you not wrap her up 
more closely ? ” 

An arm was stretched through the carriage window, 
almost touching Ruth as she crouched in her corner. She 
pulled her shawl a little more over her face, holding her 
breath ; then the arm was withdrawn — but the hand rested 
still on the ledge of the window. She could see it from 
between the folds of her disguise. Anthony’s hand ! The 
hand which had so often caressed her ! 

“ I hope she will not be the worse for this journey. It 
is a little dangerous for so young a child to be travelling 
at night, I fear.” 

How many times she had heard that voice in her dreams, 
lowered to the same gentle and tender key — and it had 
seemed to her that this tenderness was for her, and in her 
dream she had palpitated with joy ! But she was not 
dreaming now — never before had she so thoroughly realized 
how completely she had passed out of his life. These other 
ties which he had formed, how close they were ! how 
blessed ! There was the child — his child, Anthony’s 
child — and not hers ! 


292 


A DAUGHTER OF THE SOIL 


She could fancy his face so near to her here ; she knew 
the expression indicated by that tone — the eyes soft, the 
lips smiling — that better look which in former days had so 
often raised her hopes. If she were to lift her shawl ever 
so little, she would see it — and she might never have the 
chance again. But could she trust herself — dared she ? 

Take your seats, please.” 

An rev oir, monsieur ! Do not be anxious. The little 
one is quite warm and well.” 

He was gone — thank Heaven ! It was better so 1 The 
train was now once more in motion. It would not stop 
again until Ruth’s destination was reached, and then she 
would get out quickly, and fly before he again came 
near. 

She kept her face covered still, though she was almost 
suffocating — she must regain her self-control before she 
came out of ambush. As she leaned back quivering in her 
corner, thoughts came crowding upon her, emotions that 
she had hoped to have crushed forever, passionate anguish. 
Oh, Heaven, how she used to dream of old of holding a babe 
in her arms — Anthony’s child ! She had thought, with 
young shy tenderness and delight, of the little soft limbs, 
the clinging hands, the tiny face, which would perhaps 
belong to her some day, and fill up the measure of her 
bewildering happiness. And of how, as it grew older, it 
would draw the father’s heart closer and closer to her, the 
mother, and through her to God ! And now, with her 
heart burning within her, Ruth told herself that if things 
had been as she had fancied of old — if she were indeed 
Anthony’s wife, and the child hers, her dream might have 
come true ! How he loved it ! Oh, why had she seen 
it? why had she been allowed to see it? If it had been 
hers, how dear it would have been to her ! Could that 
other woman love it as much ? Why was it not with her, 
in the same carriage ; if the father was so full of solici- 
tude for it, why were they not all together? Probably 


“ THE MURMUR OF ROCKING CRADLES ” 293 

Anthony’s wife wanted him all to herself — the companion- 
ship even of the nurse would be irksome to her. 

Hark ! a little sleepy murmur, a laugh — a whispered 
remonstrance from the woman, and then a babble of baby 
talk in broken French. Little voice ! how sweet it was ! 
Now, wliat was this? tugs at Ruth’s shawl, fumbling of 
sturdy little fingers — then it was drawn aside, and a small 
face peered into hers. 

“ Ma-dame ! ” cried the child. Ruth sat up, and looked 
unwillingly, shrinkingly, at the upturned face. It had lost 
its first startling likeness to its father’s — but the eyes were 
his. Ruth stretched out her arms, her momentary repul- 
sion gone ; she took the child on her knee, and kissed it ; 
the round cheeks, the brown curls, the chubby hands. 

“ Madame loves children?” 

‘‘ Yes.” 

“ One must say that this one is an angel. Always 
laughing, always good-tempered, and so clever ! Madame 
should hear her already say her prayers, and not yet two 
years old.” 

Ruth bowed her head over the child’s crisp curls. 
“Thank God for that!” she breathed to herself. Her 
prayer was perhaps to be heard after all — the wife would 
teach the child, and the child the father ! “ Thank 

God ! ” she said — with a dagger-pang at her heart. 

The little one jumped and crowed on her knee, exami- 
ning with busy fingers her hair, her hat, the brooch at her 
throat, its little round mouth open, its eyes dilated with 
eagerness. 

donc^ Bebk, / ” cried the nurse, with pretended 
anger. “ It is bad, what you are doing there ! You will 
tire madame.” 

“ Oh, no ! she does not tire me,” said Ruth. “ Let her 
stay with me for a little. Your arms must be stiff with 
holding her so long.” 

“ Madame is very good. It is true my arms are a little 


294 


A DAUGHTER OF THE SOIL 


cramped, but that is no reason why madame should be 
fatigued — still, as she is so good ” 

Ruth scarcely heard her ; her eyes were fixed on the 
baby-face. What long lashes, longer than Anthony’s ; 
what a beautiful little mouth and chin ! that little cleft 
chin was his in miniature, and then the exquisite beauties 
which belonged to childhood alone ; the soft curves of 
cheek and neck, the dimples, the little creased wrist, the 
tiny pink fingers — how the mother must love them all and 
rejoice in them ! 

“ Oh, God,” she cried in her heart, “ is this woman so 
good ? You have given her every thing ! ” 

During the remainder of the journey she kept the child 
on her knee, but when they slackened speed, on nearing 
their destination, the nurse was astonished at the eagerness 
with which she restored her charge to her. Indeed, she had 
collected her belongings and left the carriage almost before 
the train stopped. 

Quick as she was, however, Anthony, as he came up, 
caught a glimpse of the tall figure before it disappeared in 
the crowd, and stood looking after her, breathlessly. 

‘‘ The beautiful lady ! ” observed the nurse, following the 
direction of his eyes. “She was in this compartment, 
monsieur, and has been so amiable ! She took care of 
Beb6 for a long time, with a kindness ! Ah, monsieur 
should have seen how she caressed the dear little one.” 

“ She was — here ? ” 

“ But yes, monsieur. Doubtless monsieur did not observe 
her, for she was enveloped in her shawl, asleep. But she 
woke up soon after monsieur left us that time, and took 
our Bebe on her knee. One must believe she loved chil- 
dren. If monsieur had seen her with ours ! How she 
kissed Beb4 at parting ! ” 

Anthony took the child from her arms ; he too kissed it 
with a sudden fierce passion, and then, restoring it to her, 
turned abruptly away. 


CHAPTER XXXVI 


SUESUM COEDA 

All the following day Ruth remained out of doors ; the 
atmosphere of the house seemed to stifle her. She followed 
her men afleld, watching them as they “ got ” the potatoes 
with an intensity of interest which surprised them. 

“ I could welly fancy hoo was countin’ ’em,” observed 
one fellow grumblingly to his neighbor. 

Up and down the ranks she walked, questioning occa- ♦ 
sionally, urging on loiterers, reprimanding idlers. 

‘‘ Give me that fork,” she said sternly to a gawky lad, 
who now stood by in sulky astonishment as she wielded his 
implement with feverish energy. “ This is the way to dig 
up potatoes.” 

The laborers looked round ; some of them laughing, 
some indignant. 

“ Eh, missus ! an’ how lung ’ud a body keep thot up, 
thinken yo’ ? ” growled one. “ Yo’d have us sweatin’ afore 
we’d scarce begun.” 

“ They wenches,” commented an old white-haired man, 

“ they connot do ony thing by hawves ; it mun be all or 
nought wi’ ’em. They’ll either work a mon to death, or 
else they’ll be for coddlin’ an’ marriii’ him. Last week, our 
missus, yon, sent Joe Birch a’whoam o’ count o’ th’ rheu- 
matiz’ an’ paid him full wage, too, hoo did. ’T’ud ha’ done 
him good to ha’ worked a bit. I’ve the sciatic often mysel’, 
an’ never say nought about it, but thot’s where it is. 
Women ’ull never see reason.” 

Meanwhile Ruth plied her fork with rapid, vigorous 
movements, finding in the phj^sical labor a temporary relief 

295 


296 


A DAUGHTER OP THE SOIL 


to her restlessness ; but she was obliged perforce to desist 
soon, and returned the tool to its owner with a flush and 
a smile. 

‘‘Now, Billy, put a little more energy into it.” 

Billy clutched his fork and fell to, looking up presently 
with a beaded forehead, to be commended for his valor. 
But the mistress had already withdrawn, and stood apart 
with eyes looking vaguely into space. 

“ Hoo doesn’t tak’ no notice,” he observed in some 
indignation to his neighbor. “ Hoo comes an’ sauces, an’ 
then hoo walks off. I’m noan bahn to kill mysel’ fur 
her.” 

“ Nay, nay, dunnot do thot, my lad,” chuckled the other. 
“ Eh, we couldn’t spare a chap o’ thy mak’ ; thou’d be 
terrible missed. Why, I recken when thou’rt put to’t, 
thou can do very near as mich wark in fower days as any 
other mon ’ud do in one. Theer be a dale o’ brukken- 
’earted folks at thy berrin’, Billy.” . 

. Billy jocularly endeavored to rap the wag over the head 
with the handle of his fork, and got tripped up for his 
pains. But the sound of the scuffle and the roar of 
laughter which it provoked did not seem to reach Ruth’s 

ears, though after a time she looked round hastily, as 
though suddenly aroused, and walking over to the long 
ridge of heaped-up potatoes which already stretched for 
many yards across the field, emplo3^ed herself in picking up 
and replacing those which had rolled away. 

Dusk came all too soon ; the chill, sweet October even- 
ing closing in suddenly. Wreaths of mist shrouded the 
bare meadow-lands, and clung about the distant shadowy 
woods. 

The men tramped homeward, talking to each other in the 

curt, perfunctory manner peculiar to North-country folk, 
but Ruth still lingered in the bleak, brown field. To-night 
it was hard to go in ; the house would be so quiet, so 
lonely. Every one of her laborers had more of a home to 


SURSUM CORDA 


297 


return to than she. A wife and bairns, father and mother. 
But no one was waiting to welcome her except Barbara. 
Poor old Barbara ! She would scold her and pet her and 
wait on her, it was true ; and they would have their meal 
together and finish the housework ; and then Barbara 
would go to bed, and Ruth would be left to her thoughts — 
those terrible thoughts which she had been holding at bay 
all day, they would have to be reckoned with at last and 
overcome. The struggle would be hard ; and her heart 
failed her. But she must not be a coward ; the lonely night 
would overtake her there in the field as easily as in her 
quiet room. Besides, Barbara would be anxious. She 
began to waik homeward swiftly, as though to outpace 
her own fears. 

The autumn land in the twilight looked vast and 
shadowy and unreal ; her own dark figure, pressing onward, 
the only thing that seemed alive. There was a twitter 
and a flutter occasionally, when the dim form of a tree 
broke the long, irregular outline of the hedge, the sound of 
her steps disturbing a colony of sleepy feathered things ; 
and a rustle and crackle, as her skirts brushed the curling 
leaves on the hedge, or her feet, treading on those already 
fallen, stirred up faint odors of decay, to mingle with the 
other sweet, indistinguishable scents of the October evening. 

Tliere, at last, loomed the roof of the farm, solitary and 
dark. But what was this ? A light twinkling through 
the almost leafless trees of the orchard ! It looked as 
though it came from the window of the parlor, yet that 
could not surely be ; Barbara and she never sat there now. 

As she drew nearer, however, she saw that the room 
was indeed illumined, and with the flickering glow of fire- 
light. She paused, and then dashing across the long wet 
grass, and putting impatiently aside the dewy branches 
which would have barred her passage, she approached the 
window, and looked in. Her heart beat to suffocation ; 
she knew whom she would find there. 


298 


A DAUGHTER OF THE SOIL 


Yes, he was sitting on the couch, full in the ruddy glow, 
his head a little bent, his liands loosely clasped together, 
waiting for her, as he had waited so often of old. And 
beside him, with chubby limbs outstretched, and curly hair 
gleaming in the dancing light, was the sleeping form of 
his child. 

After one long steadj^ look Ruth noiselessly withdrew, 
and went round the house to the door. Barbara came 
hurrying forth to meet her. 

“ My lamb, he’s theer ! ” she said, in an agitated whisper. 
“ Mester Anthony’s theer — an’ he’s brought — a little ’un ! 
I don’t know what to mak’ on it, but he wouldn’t be gain- 
said. I doubt thou’ll be angered — but he wouldn’t ’earken 
to nought as I towd him. He said they’d bide till thou 
coom — so I’ve made them up a bit o’ fire, fur th’ room 
were perisliin’ cowd, an’ th’ child were fair wearied out.” 

Ruth put Barbara silently on one side. 

“ Love, dunnot goo in, if it ’urts thee,” whispered the old 
woman, awed by her manner. “ See, I’ll nip in an’ tell him 
thou connot.” 

“ No,” said Ruth, “ do not go in — I will see them.” 

She entered the house with a firm step. The light from 
Barbara’s lamp fell upon her face as she passed, showing 
it pale and calm ; no trace of the passionate agitation of a 
little while ago remained — the very intensity of her emo- 
tion gave her strength and dignity. 

She went into the parlor, closing the door after her, and 
advancing slowly. 

Anthony rose, and awaited her approach. 

“ Ruth,” he said, in a low voice, “ this is my child. I 
have come to ask you if you will take her.” 

Ruth gazed at him ; the suddenness and strangeness of 
the petition overwhelmed her, and she could not find words 
in which to reply. 

“No other woman in the world would grant such a 
request ; no other man would have the effrontery to 


SURSUM CORDA 


299 


make it. But I dare make it — to you. You will not 
refuse.” 

“ I will not refuse,” said Ruth, her voice sounding 
muffled in her own ears. “ But I do not understand. 
How can I take this child from her mother ? ” 

“ The mother is dead,” said Anthony. ‘‘ She died some 
months ago — suddenly.” 

There was a pause, and then Ruth sat down — indeed she 
could scarcely stand — and signed to Anthony to do the 
same ; the thought flashing simultaneously through the 
minds of both : thus, on this sofa did they sit that Sunday 
morning when Anthony flrst asked leave to woo her. But 
now — the child lay between them. 

“ Ruth,” he began, and then with a sudden break in his 
voice ; “ ah, Ruth, Ruth ! that we should sit here side by 
side again. No, no,” with a quick, desp^erate effort at self- 
control. “ I have not come for this — I will not offend you. 
I have come only for the child’s sake. She has no one but 
me ; and you know I am not fit for such a charge. I had 
intended to let her share my wandering life — I am sailing 
to-morrow for America. I love the little thing, and I could 
not make up my mind to leave her among strangers ; but 
yesterday, when the nurse told me that you had held her 
in your arras,” — he paused a moment, but continued quietly, 
— ‘‘ the thouglit came to me that if I appealed to you — if 
I asked you to take this child in her innocence, you 
would not deny me.” 

She sat silent and motionless ; the fire had sunk low, and 
he could not see her face. 

‘‘ In this room,” he said, “ I asked you years ago to take 
me and save me. In that, as I now own, I wronged you 
— past forgiveness. I ask you now to take my child. 
Take her, Ruth ; make her good, teach her your religion — 
make lier like yourself. Bring her up as if she were a 
daughter of your own. I dare to ask it because you are — 
yourself.” 


300 


A DAUGHTER OF THE SOIL 


There was a pause, broken only by the little one’s deep 
breathing. Anthony pressed his hands tightly together, 
and went on, striving to speak in tranquil, measured tones. 

“ 1 resign all right over her, I abandon her entirely to 
you. I am going far away, and will not return for many, 
many years, if at all. It is better so — the less she knows 
of her father the better. Will you accept the trust, 
Ruth?” 

“ I will,” she said, and stooping, gathered up the little 
one in her arms, so gently that she did not wake, but with 
a little sleepy, contented sigh nestled close. 

Anthony looked away quickly, he could not bear the 
sight. After a moment he rose. 

“I am going now. There is no more to be said. Yes, 
one thing I have not told you, and it will please you. The 
child is already a Catholic. I always wanted her to be 
brought up in j^our faith. Her nurse has begun to teach 
her some of the prayers I think you used to say. She was 
baptized after her mother’s death — I have called her,” 
dropping his voice, ‘‘ by your name.” 

“ Oh, Anthony ! ” cried Ruth. Was that joy, or pain, 
or reproach in her voice ? 

“ You may as well know it,” he went on, speaking 
hurriedly and vehemently. “My wife and I were not 
happy, Ruth. I was to blame, for I married her without 
love. I could not love her-— I have never loved any woman 
but you.” 

He turned toward her now, the passion in him leaping 
suddenly forth ; the frail barrier of his self-restraint crum- 
bling before it like straw before a flame. 

“I will say it — 3^11 must hear it,” he cried incoherently. 
“ I must tell 3^ou, in spite of all. I misused you, I be- 
trayed you, I insulted you, but never, Ruth, never, even 
when I was most brutal to 3^11, have I ceased to love you I 
It has been my torture and my punishment. If suffering 
could have atoned, I should have atoned — but my sin can 


SUESUM COEDA 


301 


never be expiated — never, never ! No, do not be afraid — 
I will trouble you no more. Good-by ! ” 

He bent over the child for a moment and then straight- 
ened himself with a groan : 

Oh, if I could live my life again ! ” 

“Anthony,” said Ruth, trembling, “wait ! Where are 
you going ? ” 

“ How do I know ? ” he answered, with an unsteady, mis- 
erable langh. “ Anywhere — into the outer darkness ! ” 

“ No, no — you shall not leave me so — I have the right to 
be heard. Anthony, you say your sin can never be expi- 
ated. Oh, you are wrong ! ” — bending earnestly forward, 
and laying her hand upon his sleeve. “ Can you not be- 
lieve it when I tell you ? God will forgive you — as I for- 
give you.” 

“ Where is God ?” cried Anthony hoarsely, and she saw 
his form falter and sway. “ Where is your God ? Oh, 
Ruth, let me go ! When I see you with my child, it un- 
mans me. If I too could learn — from your lips. But it is 
too late.” 

“ It is not too late,” said Ruth. “ It is never too late. 
Oh, Anthony, how often I have prayed for this hour I 
Love, stay with me — I will teach you ! ” 

And stretching out her arm with exquisite, indescribable 
tenderness she drew him down, down, until his wet cheek 
touched hers. 


THE END 



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